


You've caught me between wind and water

by Apfelessig



Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington's Spies
Genre: Battle Couple, Continental Army, Friends to Lovers, Gambling, Heavy Plot with some smut, M/M, Military boredom, Oneida, Scouting missions, Slow Burn, Spycraft, Valley Forge, military camp, pipe smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig
Summary: The Continental army has stood down for the winter, but intelligence doesn't sleep. As November cools, the slow dance of Ben and Caleb, Caleb and Ben, crystallizes into something real, amid scouting missions and intelligence gathering and much, much pining.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 78
Kudos: 41





	1. Ghosts in the Water

Caleb has noticed, on his many long voyages in the turgid and freezing wastewaters between the East Coast and Greenland, an unusual phenomenon in the ocean. It's best seen from the rigging of a tall ship. (The heights don't suit him much, though he trusts the ropes will hold him). Scanning the choppy water, with white caps that appear and vanish the next instant, he often sees large patches of seemingly unaffected flat, as if the water had been poured evenly over a frozen surface.

The patches stay in defined shapes, with invisible boundaries that separate it from the rest of the froth. Waves that come near it seem to inexplicably settle then churn away on the other side as if passing behind a screen.

Closer to shore, it would suggest a nearby reef—bad news for any questing vessel, liable to break its hull on deceptive stillness. But Caleb has witnessed the phenomenon much farther out, in waters many fathoms deep, and has yet to find a more experienced shipmate who can explain to him why. Some say it's the wind going against the current, but Caleb doesn't know wind that moves around invisible walls. Some say it's an underwater channel, a deep river. Some say it's where a ship went down with many souls, which the sea mourns respectfully. (Caleb doubts this. The sea in all its great wisdom shows no mercy and no quarter and teaches humility to those who will not have it otherwise.)

Some say it marks treasure. He supposes there's no real way to test that—investigating would be certain death and he's not keen to brave that fate, even with a diving bell.

It's a disturbing feeling, knowing there are terrifying things in the water that pale to the mysteries inherent to the water itself.

Those patches of calm, right when you'd forgotten about them.

Now why would that image come to him just now?

"Caleb, your turn."

Caleb blinks, looks down at the draughts board as if he's never seen it before. And he hasn't—three of his pieces have vanished and one of Ben's seems to have circumnavigated the playing field completely.

"Shite," he says, with feeling. "You're cheating, Ben, you must be."

"Suppose you'd know if you were paying attention."

Caleb waves his hand— _mea culpa_ —and sighs. He moves a piece.

\---

It's a slow day. The army is preparing for a long winter and this brisk November day feels like it could be the edge of the long anticipated cold front. Sackett disagrees, clairvoyant as usual, and pronounces three days of warmer weather, at least, before the winter rations will have to be handed out.

The men have settled into new routines, and even the more ardent platoon sergeants ease up on their drills, more in acquiescence to the rising chill in the wind than the barely-restrained malcontent in their foot soldiers. Things are coming to rest.

Except Ben. Of course.

It's his thirteenth letter today. Some of them reports, pages and pages long. Some mercifully short missives, acknowledgement of information received. Others are requests for goods, or ordering of goods, or redistribution of goods, and all in all, Ben wonders why he now gets to attribute a maddening hand cramp to something that _isn't even part of his job description._

Lord knows he's a man that can thrive behind a desk, but this is ridiculous.

 _And it's only November_ , he thinks, rubbing his eyes. If the British had any mercy, they'd attack the camp this instant.

A short exhale that gets caught somewhere behind his nose, and he pulls a letter toward him with handwriting he could spot at ten paces in dim lighting.

_Culper._

He breaks the wax impatiently, reads with an energy he's not felt since morning, and sits back with a wan smile. _You sly fox._

\---

The tent canvas snaps aside. "Mission for you, Caleb."

The slumbering figure on the cot shrinks under a wool blanket. "Will you close the tent, ya lumbering brute, I just got warm."

Ben obliges and waits impatiently for his friend to decide it's worth raising his head. "What?"

"Our friend Culper's got a lead on some supplies being held for the British army." The letter hits Caleb squarely in the face and he groans.

"Christ alive, Ben, surely you aren't asking me to scout."

"In Livingston."

"That's three days' ride!" Caleb protests, feebly. He'll do it. He knows he will, but he'll be damned if Ben is going to get him out of this warm cot without a little pleading.

"A day's ride with fresh horses," Ben corrects. "You can swap out twice, make it there by tomorrow night."

"Aye, and who'll swap me out," Caleb grumbles. "Seems you haven't got me and me valuables' best interests in mind, Ben."

Ben's mouth goes to open, but he stumbles a little, thinking better of his words. Caleb would think more of it were he not already making a mental packing list, and cursing his luck to be the right-hand man of a major who doesn't step down for the winter.

"Did Abe say what I'm looking for?" Resigned, he flings back the wool blanket and begins scouting for his vest and boots. Ben watches his friend like he always does, carefully, excessively so.

If Caleb could feel Ben's look as it drops on his shoulders, surely he'd flinch. So he keeps his gaze light. He's a handsome man, his friend. He's always considered so. Sure, Benjamin himself is known, much to his chagrin, to be the most handsome officer in the army. He doesn't understand why Caleb is so much ignored. He's not so short as his whaler's garb makes him, and besides, who has any head for height once you see those eyes? That smile could bring the world to its knees and into his arms, if Caleb wanted it to. Where Ben keeps his cool blues detached and reserved, Caleb lights a hearth for all.

But a hearth for all isn't the same as a hearth for one.

For a moment, he's forgotten to answer. "Army provisions. Pork, mostly, though he thinks there's a weapons cache there. Musket rounds."

"Well, we can use those," Caleb mutters. It's been a brawl of a year, and hardly a civilized one. They've had losses, both in men and supply lines, and even if your revolutionary heart is set on fighting with pots and pans, it's a terrible thing when you consider you might have to. "Did you say pork?"

"And musket rounds," Ben emphasizes.

"There's three dead drops on the way, suppose you want me checking those as well."

Ben nods, then clears his throat. "Yes."

Caleb heaves his chest theatrically and gives Ben a wink that makes the blood rush to his ears. "No time like the present, then, eh?"

His earlier sloth is gone in a mischievous twinkling. Ben barely has time to wonder at this, the most underappreciated of his friend's many traits, as Caleb is already shouldering his pack and making to move to the exit. As he passes Ben, the major reaches out a hand—for what?

"Er—"

Caleb stops, looks up surprised, then— _right_ —grips him in a firm, businesslike embrace. To top it off, he cuffs Ben upside the head, disarranging his hair. "At ease, Tallboy, back before you know it."

And he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> way to send your "friend" into a frozen wasteland ben!
> 
> if you liked it, please leave a comment <3 fandom gushing sustains me during these times. also I've got some ideas but i'm open to suggestions on where to take these next chapters
> 
> Update: after some follow up research on these "glossy patches" that more than one keen-eyed sailor has asked about on Quora and other forums, I found this treat: a [flukeprint](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/spot-an-unseen-whale-180964189/) is "a completely smooth, undisturbed crown of glassy water" that marks where a whale has recently surfaced and then submerged again. How perfect is that for our favourite whaler? It's those little research treats that make writing fanfic so rewarding.


	2. Rumour

It's a week before Ben starts to worry. Before that, he honestly can't find the time. Charles Lee's contingent has arrived at camp, and the discussions around the map-laden table go deep into the night. It's not just Lee, either. Colonel Bradford pollutes his presence like a sore that Ben is itching to lance, scratch open, or freeze off completely. The man is everywhere. Any time Ben leaves his desk to check on dwindling supplies, or flag down a courier with a fresh stack of letters, Bradford manages to be on the scene, just off centre, with the same toady group of lieutenants that make up his travelling posse.

And the man is loud.

"It comes down to leadership," he says, just as Ben stalks into earshot. " _Effective_ leadership, that is. How is a man meant to keep his wits and spirits when the ideals, the principles, he fights for can't keep him fed?"

The grumbling agreement from his audience isn't just coming from his toadies. Some sergeants have joined his ranks of late. Ben can't blame them, really. It's shaping up to be a hard winter, even as Sackett's weather prediction has inevitably come true and the sun has peeked through these last days. The stockrooms have a double guard. No one has made an attempt to cheat rations yet, but Ben knows discipline will be in order soon.

"It's a travesty," Bradford continues, as Ben feels his chest constrict. "Of all the men gathered, one has to wonder who truly deserves the accolades so liberally bestowed upon our commander-in-chief. For every victory, the man loses so many of his corps it's a marvel there are enough left to tax the few provisions we have."

"Shameful," a sergeant mutters.

"Oh, I dunno," another says, more out of uneasiness than a desire to stick his neck out. "They thought they had us at Saratoga."

"Washington's victories have fallen on the luck of his generals. The man has scraped together a win on the backs of those he sees fit to now forget. His grip is loosening—"

"Would that be treasonous speech, Bradford?"

The colonel turns, taking his foot off of an upturned crate. He eyes Ben with unfiltered, untarnished arrogance, and Ben is almost impressed by it. This is a man who has never felt the need to hide anything.

"Is expecting a full stomach treason, Tallmadge? Or proper compensation?"

Ben has stepped closer now and dropped his voice. "Seeding dissent among the ranks is a punishable offence," he says. If Bradford hears the silent entreaty to act the gentleman and titled officer he is, his actions deny it.

"Seeding dissent, am I?" he jeers.

"Morale is more important now than ever."

"Hark at that, boys, our major is concerned with the hearts and minds of his dear lads. How touching, that we should fall under his purview of late."

The pointed remark is enough to give Ben pause. Bradford leans in and murmurs poison.

"I'm surprised you can spare the time, with how far you and that smuggler have crawled up Washington's arse—"

"You shut your mouth, Bradford!"

He shoves Bradford, hard, and it's a mistake. He knows it as soon as he sees the glint in the colonel's eyes. _Gotcha_.

"Get 'im!"

Three men spring into action and it's more than Ben expected, more _vicious_ than he expected. He takes two blows to the gut, which wind him for the haymaker he just manages to land on Bradford before he himself is bowled to the ground. The mud splats and Ben feels damp soak his back. For a dizzying moment, he thinks he's bleeding.

"Would that be assaulting an officer, Tallmadge?" Bradford hisses, pinning Ben with a knee on his chest. "You slick—"

"Enough!"

Washington's voice cracks through the freezing air like a fissure. Bradford gets to his feet with a last painful dig of his knee in Ben's ribs. A sergeant blithely extends a hand for him to pull himself up and they adjust their coats.

The commander-in-chief surveys them with chipped flint in his eyes.

"What," he rumbles, "is the meaning of this?"

Ben takes lead. "Sir, I—"

"Not you, Tallmadge."

Bradford holds the commander's gaze with ease. Such arrogance must be divinely granted. Were the man to be court-martialed on the spot, Ben doubts he would take it with more than a twitch in the lip.

"A miscommunication, sir," Bradford says greasily. "And a hasty reaction from your head of intelligence."

He doesn't flinch as a hand slaps in front of Ben's chest, holding him back. There is a dangerous stillness. Washington's teeth bare as he carefully enunciates.

"I will not have grievances aired in front of the enlisted men, is that clear?"

"Sir!" Bradford salutes, too sharp. The others follow suit, Ben swallowing bile.

"Dismissed."

Bradford leads his posse as they slink off, as casual as if taking a summer walk. Ben lingers near his commander for the right moment to share his misgivings, but Washington cuts him off with a look.

"I expected better of you."

"Sir, they were spreading malicious rumour—"

"Gossip, Major Tallmadge, is the lifeblood of an idle army." He stops, sizing up the younger man with disdain. "A head of intelligence should know how to separate the wheat from the chaff."

It stings. Ben just manages a "Sir."

"You would do well to concern yourself with acquiring provisions," is the commander's last contribution before stalking back into his tent. "Well-fed men seldom have time for... rumour."

"Sir," Ben says, darkly.

\---

Washington's words follow him to the edge of camp, into the subdued canvas-filtered light of Sackett's empire.

In Sackett's cart, a gentle anarchic clutter disguises method. There are piles of contraptions with more hinges than seem necessary, waxwork busts in various stages of completion, and large glass vases with seemingly no purpose at all. Tables and trunks are covered with anachronisms: a small wooden-box, partially dismantled to reveal a hidden cache. Two dozen hard-boiled eggs awaiting further experimentation amid carefully corked vials. And stacks upon stacks of paper.

The chaos in the room is an extension of Sackett's own serpentine mental organizational system. The man is compartmentalized even from himself, yet all the secrecy and mistrust hardly seems a burden to him. Not for the first time, Ben feels concern that this would be the place, in this man's company, that he can feel most like himself.

Today's visit is less of a balm to his spirits than he had hoped for. After the dust-up with Bradford, Ben finds himself pacing between the tables fretfully, as Sackett peers through a magnifying glass at a clockwork movement.

"Far be it for me to advise on your more menial duties," Sackett begins, "but I believe the oversight of provision shipments is more effectively achieved at a desk of your own."

"I'm awaiting letters," Ben says sharply.

"Nevertheless, my boy, if you don't take a seat soon, I fear for the well-being of some of my more delicate instruments."

He gestures with a set of tweezers and Ben turns to look, feeling the bump from his careless elbow before he sees it. Sackett sighs mildly at Ben's acrobatic feat to keep the device from toppling. Point taken, Ben clears a surface and sits. His leg jacks up and down. Sackett carefully places down his tweezers and seals the back of the clock with a click. Satisfied, he turns more of his attention to his young charge.

"A burden shared is a burden eased."

"It would ease my burden if you could convince our commander of that."

Sackett hides a smile. "Oh dear, has he withheld information from you? What can the man be thinking?"

"It's not that. He's not _listening_."

A twitch in the corner of his mouth betrays Sackett's amusement at this sulking. "Ah."

"I'm his head of intelligence," Ben points out, "he's supposed to trust me."

"I think you'll find that it's your duty to serve him, and his to apply what you provide at his discretion."

"If with 'discretion' you mean 'ignore entirely'."

"Washington commands the Continental forces and by extension its officers. In these dark months, he will have more battling to do with the fragile egos within the camp than the Loyalist forces without."

"I can help him with that!" Ben bursts out. "I'm—I'm _supposed_ to help him with that! I've tried to warn him again and again, he—"

His effusions simmer in face of the clerk's ardent stare. He's always been sensitive to that look. His father used it often enough. _Temper yourself, young man_. With effort, he pulls back the words from his tongue.

"For the head of a secret service, you are awfully forthright with your sentiments, major." It's a warning, gently given, as much as a chastisement. "Perhaps you would do well to muse on discretion. It is the greater part of valour."

Ben scoffs. "You sound like General Lee."

"Ah, yes. The dear general does make caution his watchword to a prescient degree."

Ben does not have it in him to needle out Sackett's meaning.

"The men are unhappy," he says instead. Getting to the meat of the matter will help him order his thoughts. "A few complaints here and there aren't much, but under supervision and careful ministration they will add up. And there are elements—officers—who fan those flames too readily for my liking."

The subtlety of the problem does not miss Sackett. Ben feels the intelligence clerk's attention sharpen like a hawk's.

"Complaints?"

"Yes. Food, mostly. Missing back pay."

"Hardly new material," Sackett points out.

"Yes, but Bradford blames it on Washington. He relates it to poor leadership and ties in our year's losses to the cause."

"Colonel Bradford? Lee's man?"

"Yes." Ben is animated now, focused. "He's been vocal about it ever since his arrival in camp. Conscientiously so."

"Hm."

The pause is anticlimactic.

"He makes it a point to be provocative," he adds, in case more weight is needed. "Even crass."

Sackett's next remark will not unsettle Ben for many hours yet, and only does so because the leap in subject matter is borderline telepathic.

"Perhaps it is good our volatile young friend is not here to advise you. No doubt he would suggest using the man as cannon fodder."

_Perhaps he'd be right to._

"Where is young Mr. Brewster off to this time?"

"Scouting a lead on musket rounds and provisions."

"Hm." Another pause as Sackett rifles through papers in front of him. "I have uncorroborated reports of increased British patrols east of New York. Toward Livingston and Morriston. Rumour, mostly."

Even with his sparse physical vocabulary, this report is delivered with unusual restraint, and it is at this point that Ben begins to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no!  
> ben doesn't need any of this, honestly
> 
> stay safe out there! <3 and leave a comment if you're so inclined, it's so encouraging to get feedback from readers during all this isolation


	3. Theory and Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For extra sensory immersion, please play the soundscape ["Autumn Walk"](https://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/autumnWalkSoundscapeGenerator.php) and set it to 'animate'. This was my constant companion throughout the (long!) writing and editing process.

His horse, which has been galloping along cheerfully for miles, has decided it needs a slower pace, and Caleb's internal organs, if not his pressing deadline and the needs of the Continental army, are happy to oblige.

He takes a deep breath. Musty leaf, damp wood and sunshine.

_Damn the bastard, Sackett's right again._

After a morning cold enough to stiffen Caleb's beard, he expected to make good time on hard roads. But the cold front has lifted, leaving a mist over the snow as it turns to cloud. His sore muscles welcome the warmth seeping through his leathers. It's a respite he knows he can't quite afford.

Until now he has moved invisibly, leaving no tracks even at a full gallop. With the ground softening by the hour, and his horse sinking deeper into the slush, he'll risk being tracked himself if he stays on the main roads. A heavily used path might disguise his movements, his tracks just one among many, but high traffic means patrols, and British ones at that.

He'll have to move into the woods soon, along slower forest trails. Harder terrain for a horse, especially this one, which loves open empty track as much as Caleb doesn't. 

_Get out there and scout. Have a look around._

Officers make it sound so easy. Pushing around their bits of painted wood and paper and chess pieces and whatever other trinkets they have about their person on their fussy maps. Roads all carefully marked in ink, houses neatly outlined. All the _pertinent_ bits.

And the great bloody landscape of trees and muck and big, rocky outcrops and soggy swamp patches you'd swear were on the other side of the path the last time you had to make this godforsaken run, all reduced to a neat little squiggle signifying, roughly, "hills".

One time, the path had flooded and frozen over and Caleb's horse had been up to its knees in cracked ice before he could blink. Someone had dammed a creek without marking it down. How was that for _pertinent?_

Officers could keep their parchments. A surveyor's map was no use to a scout, who created a much richer geography in his own head with each foray into the frontier. 

The woods that flank the road end abruptly and Caleb's mare trots past one last stand of nude birch trees into a wide expanse of farmland. Hay stalks, what's left of them, dot the snowy mounds in rows. He can just see the top of a farm roof as the land slopes down and away.

Farms mean supplies.

This far from any officer's orders, a scout lives and dies by their instinct. Though Caleb feels the pressure of his mission, a short detour seems in order, if only to give his horse some peace. He can already hear Ben drawing breath in his head, but he shrugs it off. 

Caleb hops down and leads his horse a good ten minutes' into the woods, tying her off near a stream. She drinks, gratefully, and Caleb makes his way back to scout out the farm. The lady of the house makes no appearance, but the steady stream of wood smoke puffing out of the chimney says she's likely cooking. The farmer is out back, piling logs. No wee ones nor fair maidens nor whipjackets, and though he mourns a sweet sight, it makes it easier. 

There's a root cellar, likely fully stocked after this year's good harvest. He settles into some dry leaf brush and waits. After a patient eternity, he gets a spot of luck as the farmer goes to saddle his cart.

"Get out of here, ya big lug," Caleb grins, and the man nudges his horses out onto the main road.

Once clear, Caleb makes a stealthy dash to the wooden doors set into the ground and stumbles from the blinding winter scene above into the dank space below. He pats the ground gently as his eyes adjust, uncovering a starchy bulb. By shape he thinks turnip and a strong sniff and cautious nibble confirm it. Questing fingers find a bag with stretched seams but no holes. He starts filling it quickly. 

A creak above him stills him. Slowly, he draws the bag to himself and pulls out his pistol. It's loaded, as it always is on these runs, and with luck the powder's still dry in the moist winter air. For a moment, all he smells is damp earth.

Another creak—and a retreating footstep.

Caleb tethers his instinct to act, waits to hear a telltale sign that the coast is clear. 

Silence.

The treeline isn't fifteen paces away, he remembers. Nothing for it, once he's clear of the doors, he'll have to run. He crouches on the stairs, puts his fist, still holding the bag, against the wood over his head. Strains his ears.

Still nothing.

_Caleb Brewster, if you die holding half a bag of turnips in a root cellar_ , he thinks, _Ben'll leave your grave unmarked, and with good reason_.

Three quick draws of breath and— _push!_ The cellar door thunders open and falls flat.

_Don't look, don't look_ , just up and out, pump those legs, make for the trees, veer left behind that woodpile for cover—

_Pffpt!_

The musket crack is almost as loud as the shot burying itself in the log next to his ear. Adrenaline carries him past the tree line, and another shot goes wild as he legs it into the woods.

The farmer's wife! He almost met his end 'cause of a _farmer's wife!_

He checks his shoulder a few times, but she's stayed back, likely smug that she's fended off the would-be cellar thief. Shaking his head, he finds his way back to his horse. His mare nibbles at the wood chips he's brushing off his coat and investigates the smell of tasty treats in the bag. Just over two dozen. Not enough, not nearly enough, and certainly not worth a hole in his head.

He feeds her a turnip, then ties the rest to his saddle.

"Right," he tells her, mounting smoothly. "From this point on, mission only."

He clicks his tongue twice and he's underway.

The main roads aren't an option, and this hamlet's gotten more prickly since his last visit. So Caleb sticks to forest trails. The road is just out of sight through the trees and he keeps a steady pace. But he's slow, tortuously slow and Ben's worried face floats in his mind's eye a few times, getting less worried and more of that pinched expression the major gets when he's of a mind to reprimand him.

_Soft, Benny_ , Caleb thinks. _I'm shifting fast as I can_.

A few hours of daylight yet, he reckons. And not far, if memory serves.

He hears the murmur long before he understands the words.

"...king a fool of yerself."

"Damn britches are too coarse."

"Aye, the britches."

"This cloth's not fit for horses."

Caleb's already off the path, drawing out of sight, murmuring sweet nothings to his mare with a soothing pat on the nose. His breath stills. Slowly, he draws his pistol and rests it on his wrist.

"It's not the britches, Freddy, it's the wench you pulled at the tavern."

"You'll say nowt bout Bess, she's a sight fairer than any you've ever laid hands on."

"And I'll keep it that way, if that's the reward. Scratchin' yer nethers like a mangy dog."

"It's the britches!"

"You'll wear clean through 'em and what you'll say to the sergeant I'd like to know..."

The two patrolmen on the path—the itchy Freddy and his companion—amble past, a trifle too at ease. Fresh blood. Muskets still heavy on their shoulders, judging by their frequent adjustments. Eyes straight ahead, never once thinking to scan the underbrush. Youngins. Not likely to get old, either. 

He waits for them to pass and gives silent thanks his horse kept quiet. _Bit sloppy_ , he thinks, holstering his pistol, _sending out a patrol of just two freshmeats in a neutral zone—_

"H-h-halt!"

Caleb turns.

Another patrolman, younger but sharper-looking, has a musket trained on him from fifteen paces away. Unbelievable. First the turnips, then a baby-faced tinker like this one gets the drop on him?

_Blimey but you're a stealthy one._

"Parole?" the man squeaks.

"What are ye, man, sixteen?" Caleb groans. "Are y'even meant to be in uniform?"

The boy clears his throat. "Parole!" he challenges again. 

Caleb gives this due consideration. "King George's a squeeze crab?"

The musket wavers. "What?"

"Worth a shot." His hands move slowly to his belt.

"Higgins?" someone calls out, and the boy makes the last mistake of his life as he whips his head around. Caleb's tomahawk knocks him clear off his feet and the musket fires, echoing in crisp air. 

Caleb's horse rears and shrieks, hooves pummeling the air by his head. He grabs at the reigns but she takes off, pounding through the trees. 

He hears footsteps and voices—more than just the two stationed so obviously on the path. In a split second's decision, Caleb seizes his tomahawk and runs. Heart pounding, he clears a fallen tree, tearing deeper and deeper into the underbrush, throwing himself at long last into a dip in the dirt, pistol clutched to his chest, axe in his grip.

The patrol makes enough noise to be tracked even from here, calling to each other, issuing commands. Five men, all told, minus the young man Caleb laid out. Let them follow the sound of breaking branches and galloping, his horse can lead them on a merry chase. He keeps his head down and his finger on the trigger, and this time he waits until long after he hears no sound at all before peeking above the ditch to confirm the all clear. 

Sighing, he lets his head thump against the ground gently. Above him, tree crowns sway against a clouded sky. The winter's getting to him, he thinks, letting a man creep up on him in the dead silent like that. 

Ben's face, now severely pinched, hovers in his mind.

"Ow, none of that, Ben," Caleb mutters. 

No horse. No rations, and not even a bag of turnips to show for the day.

He rubs his face, gives his beard a thoughtful tug. Well, lying here won't get him to the provisions barn any faster, and the sun's beginning to dip.

He's quieter on foot than he's been all day, and truth be told it's a relief to be moving at his own pace. He can feel the soft ground part under his boots, but he's a dab hand at moving silently, and even sucking mud can't slow him too much. Like this, he feels the woods wrap around him, an extension of his senses. He'll not be caught unawares again.

He keeps off the trail and the road, marks his course by the sound of the creek and a few handy farm houses in the distance. He checks the directions in Abe's letter again, maps it against what he knows of the area. Only one place large enough for the shipment he's described—the Enright estate, west of Livingston. 

The dim outline of the barn against the setting sun looses a veritable stone from his gut. Never mind transporting the goods, for now it's blessing enough he's made it here in one piece.

A cool evening wind rustles the tree tops. The birds hush, watching quietly.

He approaches in deadly silence. Within thirty paces of the barn, he takes cover behind a midden heap. Guard is usually thin there, the smell being what it is, but Caleb can't see anyone at all.

His instincts are primed after a day of mishaps and his mouth frowns before he realizes why.

The stone, relieved earlier, settles back into his bowels with an accompanying dread. He grips his axe and scans the woods one more time, praying for a twitch in the trees, a snapped twig, anything to prove him wrong. 

He moves forward, now in full sight of any bystander, and the absence of shout or shot fuels his fear. He marches swiftly to the barn and wrenches open the heavy door.

A strong haze of hay, made thick in the setting sunlight. A lingering smell of gunpowder and ham. And nothing else.

Empty.

He shatters a crate against a beam. Then he sinks slowly into a crouch, brushes his hat from his head, and wipes down his beard.

His cautious approach, the quiet woods, the scattered patrols... Events of the day flicker by in seconds as he studies the hard-packed ground. Slowly he rises, does a full inspection of the barn, eyes adjusting in the twilit gloom.

Nothing. All gone.

Freshly so, his tracking senses tell him, still working as he looks for something else to throw in his disappointment. He wouldn't have missed them by much more than an hour.

On horse, on the roads, he'd have made it easily with time to spare. But he'd never have made it past any checkpoint, would he, and the damn forest trails crawling with lobsterbacks.

Caleb makes up his mind like a clap of thunder.

"No. No, this can't be."

This _will not_ be.

An hour, not much more. 

No horse of his own.

Half moon and a clear night tonight, though, once the twilight passes. He walks back out of the barn and looks at the ground that's been keen to betray his own tracks all day. Heavy laden carts leave heavy indents. Horses to pull them, too, and soldier bootsteps aplenty.

"What'd'ye think, Tallboy?" Caleb whispers under his breath. In his mind, his friend gives a small smile. "Aye."

Caleb checks his pistol and sets off on the marked road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added some colonial slang, where [whip jackets](https://owlcation.com/humanities/A-Freshwater-Mariners-Guide-To-Colonial-Slang) is a group of men and a [squeeze crab](<a%20href=) means "a sour-looking, shriveled, diminutive fellow". The former is used on the show, so I'll assume it's historically in place. The latter I can't place to the 1770s and might be taking a bit of license, but can you blame me? Lobsterbacks, of course, refers to the red coats of British regulars, or any British forces.
> 
> I did a lot of historical research while writing this chapter, none of which made it into the final draft because it wasn't relevant. I have, however, for unrelated projects, spent a long time looking at late 18th Century, early 19th Century maps. They are very meticulous and disregard topographical minutiae almost completely. For example, an 1816 map of the region I live in has the words "BLACK SWAMP" written across a whole shaded area, with several printed accounts confirming the apparent terrain hell during the spring thaws. (I mean, I get it. Surveying is hard enough. This is why we make roads. But when it's your job to cross miles on foot, you really _appreciate_ every ditch, y'know?)
> 
> I think Caleb would shed a tear to hold in his hands a proper modern Ordinance and Survey map.
> 
> Maybe we'll see a Ben and Caleb reunion next chapter?? Stay safe out there!


	4. WWCD?

The hammering from the log cabin construction has been wearing at Ben's patience all morning. The weather has turned for the worse, and if the army remains quartered in their tents, they won't survive 'til New Year's. A life saving measure, the sudden and swift deforestation of the surrounding woods to build enough huts to house ten thousand men.

With the aides clamouring in the officers' quarters, Ben has sought refuge in the comparative noiselessness of Caleb's empty tent. He lies on the cot, on his back, covered up to his chest with a blanket, tapping out a thoughtful rhythm with his fingers.

The morning's briefing had been predictably tense. There was no good news to report, and the middling news took on a dour slant next to the disastrous news of lost clothing suppliers and missing field reports. The stony grimace Washington favours rarely warms these days, and Ben feels a disproportionate amount of it weighing on his shoulders. There are other officers, of course, with more senior roles. More information to bring. But intelligence, the need for it and the distinct lack thereof in recent times, has always necessitated a close relationship between the general and the young major. He can't help but feel their current predicament is a personal failing.

It hasn't been the same since Caleb left. Ben feels it keenly, of course, close as they are. But the camp itself is missing a brightness, a spark, that even the arrival of more and more soldiers by the day can't fill. And now that the air has chilled for the season, there is little promise of relief on the horizon.

 _What does the army need?_ he asks himself for what feels like the hundredth time. Purpose. A win. A victory. Always the first answer. But in the absence of a campaign, and settled for the winter, what does the army need?

 _Provisions_ , Washington's leaden voice intones. Ben scowls at the tent canvas, but only slightly. Even in the privacy of his tent, his head, his deference holds fast.

 _You were closer with purpose_ , Sackett says, not making eye contact even in Ben's mind. Hunched over a letter, or something, distracted or doing his best to appear so.

"Rumour is the lifeblood of an idle army," Ben murmurs.

Activity, then. Some kind of activity...

An entirely un-officer-like thought rises from depths unexplored. He flushes furiously. Well, _yes_. Certainly _that_ kind of activity would raise morale. But he isn't about to authorize a— how would that even _work_ , would there be a separate building for— no, no, out of the question. To even think of such a—

Focus. What does the army need? No, not the army. What does a soldier need?

_Boots._

And?

_No, boots are imperative. Half the men are wearing cloth wrappings or are going bare-shod. Come the frosts we'll be up to our knees in frostbite—_

_Right, then_ , Ben grinds his teeth. Provisions and boots. By the grace of God, there must be someone he hasn't written a letter to yet, someone with the connection that will save them.

A sudden surge of frustration drives him to his feet, wrestling the blanket into a ball that he sends onto the cot in a huff. He feels as if he can't _breathe_. He pulls on his coat with more force than the fabric deserves and stalks out into the cold air.

The full scale of the camp reigns him in sharply and he settles his shoulders, carefully composing his face. Soldiers stand huddled against doorways of newly built cabins, or form shapeless lumps around countless twig fires, the occasional kettle steaming wistfully. They look up as he passes, but their gazes slip off of him without catching hold or taking note.

Those of his own platoon acknowledge him as he passes, to which he responds with a curt nod. To most, though, he's one of a hundred officers, distinguishable only by the marks of their epaulettes, and as the supply shortages go on, their boots and coats, eyed ever more enviously. Small privileges that set the officers apart from the enlisted men.

Endless rows of tents and cabins and fires. Dizzying. Ben's feet quicken their pace, desperate to get to the edge of things, a liminal space, a border. He can't tell if something is pushing him out of the camp, like a pressure wave, or whether something is luring him forward. But he feels it and he follows it to where the air feels clearer, calmer.

The woods. Tree cover. Within steps of the first oaks, Ben feels a weight slither off his back and drop into the mud. He staggers a little and walks, slower now, then stops and leans against a tree trunk.

The oak tree creaks in the cold.

He breathes in. Closes his eyes. Lets his head fall back.

He breathes out—

A twig snaps. His eyes slam open.

The Indigenous man before him holds up the broken twig in his hands, raises it to Ben's attention with a disarming smile. _Easy, fella_ , the stance says. _Just letting you know I'm here_.

Caleb's friend. The Oneida man he talks to. Han Yerry.

Ben pulls himself upright. He straightens his coat. Han Yerry glances at him, then rummages in a bag at his waist, unconcerned with the officer's presence.

Ben stands there, a bit stiff. He's aware he should break the silence. It's just that... well, he doesn't talk to the natives much. Even the information he gets from them is usually through letters or interpreters. The only men from camp he usually sees in their company are the enlisted men who scout alongside them, or Caleb's crew.

He licks his lips, trying to remember the basic greetings.

"Sigully," he hazards.

"Shekólih," Han Yerry says, pulling something from his pouch. "Tobacco?"

"Er..." Ben crosses to him, then nods, haltingly.

Han Yerry stuffs the pipe serenely, sticks it between his lips while he collects a small amount of tinder. Bending down, he taps two pieces of flint for sparks. The efficiency of his movements strikes Ben, a far cry from the hammering Caleb prefers. A thin smoke glows, almost immediately gone. He lifts the tinder to the pipe, puffs patiently. At length he stands and offers it to Ben, who takes it, a little spellbound, and drags deeply.

He coughs, holding the pipe out of his way. Not very dignified. He turns to apologize but Han Yerry is smiling broadly, clapping him on the back.

"First time?"

Ben colours. The chief takes the pipe and demonstrates. He holds his hands above his chest, miming the lung expansion in rhythm with his puffs.

"Not so much," he says, handing the pipe back. Ben takes it and holds it between his lips for a moment before he's ready to try. There's an art to it. Holding the air before it reaches the lungs, letting it curl around the tip of the tongue. Releasing it slowly, without force.

It takes a little, to adjust. His blood warms as the tobacco soothes him. He holds the pipe in his hand, a little lightheaded, and hears the wind for the first time that day.

"Good?" the chief asks.

Ben nods. His signature move. "Good," he answers. His memory's failing him. "How do you say 'thank you'?"

"Ya:wɅ́."

"Yow..."

"Ya: _wɅ́_."

"Ya:wɅ́."

A crow calls, distantly. Ben watches the chief out of the corner of his eye before he realizes his gaze isn't an intrusion. There is a quality to Han Yerry's mien that invites scrutiny, or perhaps admiration. He has earned his place and expects openness in his dealings with all.

He's older, fifties maybe. Tall, imposing. Chief of the Oneidas, a legendary war hero. Ben can't see the scar on his wrist where the musket ball struck him at the Battle of Oriskany, but he sees the slow, gentle stiffness in how he handles the pipe. Han Yerry catches him looking.

"Cold weather," he grimaces, flexing his hand. "Bad for shooting."

He puffs the pipe, then draws his tomahawk with his left, flipping it in an action so smoothly Ben smirks in recognition.

"You can still throw," he points out.

Han Yerry shrugs and—fluid as silk—skewers the tree trunk ahead of them. "Always," he grins, offering the pipe as he retrieves it. Ben takes another gentle puff, then returns the pipe with polite finality.

There could be some similarities, he thinks, between Han Yerry and Washington. But the lines in this face are slack, where his general keeps his teeth ground firm. And there's an assuredness in him, as loathe as Ben is to admit it, that feels unfamiliar enough to be considered unique. To stand in Han Yerry's presence is to stand grounded in a nation that already exists.

 _Will we ever have that?_ Ben thinks, and it's a testament to his vulnerability he can let such a treasonous thought have space in his head. He thinks of the motley crew back at camp, misshapen and unshod. An army cobbled together, like their uniforms, out of whatever was at hand. _Is that fertile ground for a new ideal?_

"Where is your other half?" the chief asks.

Ben starts out of his reverie. "My—"

Han Yerry drops into a pantomime half-crouch, approximating a sailor's waddle. He waves a hand under his chin to simulate scruff.

Ben smiles at his friend's expense. It's a good imitation. "Caleb is off scouting. We need... food, desperately. Weapons. Ammunition." He mimes. "Musket rounds."

Han Yerry nods. "Powder. Shot."

"Everything. We need everything." A heavy sigh as more weight drains out of him. "And I have no idea where to get it."

The words sit in the air in front of them. The admission that should end the world, doesn't.

"I've tried everything I can think of. The rivers are flooding and supplies can't get through. Anything around here for miles has been commandeered already. If not by us, then the British."

Silence from his companion.

"Not that it matters, because if I don't find a way for the men to hold their spirits, this army will be defeated by its own limping morale." A worse admission, in truth. "I have spies embedded in every corner of this conflict, and I can't infiltrate the minds of my own men. There's something going on and I can't see it."

Han Yerry peers at him, taking in his blue and gold coat. He takes a final puff of the pipe, taps out the ash reverentially.

"You need food."

_It's not as though soldier welfare isn't one of Washington's priorities. Granted, he needs them at their fighting best—_

"We can get you food."

Ben looks up. "You can?"

A nod, his eyes elsewhere. Whatever the chief is thinking, he has shared all he is going to.

"We'll pay," Ben says quickly. "A fair deal. We'll compensate whatever farmers—"

Han Yerry raises his hand, jerks it quickly to the side.

"We fight together," he says, letting his leaden gaze drop into Ben's eyes. It's a miracle Ben's knees don't buckle. "Our blood flows together. So," he looks away, and Ben almost sags. "We eat together."

It's a simple statement and describes a world that brooks no argument, so Ben offers none. For a moment, nicotine fumes heavy in the air, he can just believe that it will be that simple. To ask and then receive.

Han Yerry pockets his pipe and surveys the forest before nodding to the major.

"I will be back," he says.

"We'll be here."

The chief looks over the younger man, finds something worth a nod, then walks. He pauses, then turns back. "Your friend, Caleb Brewster. He knows the men. He can give them what they want."

Ben's brow furrows at that, but with no further explanation forthcoming, the chief takes his leave.

Ben picks his way back to the camp in a thoughtful mood. He stands at the treeline, reluctant to leave behind the ease of thought he felt in the woods. Before him, the camp stretches out like a slum. _Caleb would know what to do_ , he thinks, idly.

Boots and food. Not what Caleb would decide on. No, he'd walk up to the nearest man and have his life story out of him in minutes. Any man? Or maybe Caleb had a sense about him, who was amenable. Who had pressure points and who was just one favour short of giving way. A bar of soap, a hat, a flask of rum, a pair of boots... Creature comforts were a reliable incentive. But it wasn't always obvious, what lingered in a man's heart.

It really was just another way of turning someone, wasn't it?

You had their oath. You had their bayonet. You had their attention. So where did their attention go when it shifted away from you?

Ben watches the camp from the treeline, thoughts simmering peaceably. His officer's coat marks him with authority and so he always gets the answer his coat expects. But now, unseen, he can ask no questions and get all the answers he wants.

What do the men need? No, what do they want?

_Something they acquire for themselves._

A seed of an idea pops into his head—a dandelion seed, fragile to the slightest breeze. He keeps his thoughts light, ever mindful of the weight of his attention. He lets it touch fertile ground and hopes it takes hold.

Back in his quarters, at his desk, he pulls a fresh stack of unread letters toward him and calls an aide into his room.

"Scouts are still posted on all major roads into the camp, yes? Good. Take two more, post them at the most likely inroutes from the hills. I want to know the moment Lieutenant Brewster returns. I need to meet him on the road. Clear?"

+

Caleb is in no hurry, on this, the last stretch of his journey home. That is to say, he moves as quickly as the ox-cart will let him. (Unbelievable to have found a creature more stubborn and more plodding than his mare.) There are people waiting for him, and he keeps his promises. But after these last ten days, he's prepared for the journey to take the full length of time it needs.

No doubt there have been developments in his absence, and as a seasoned soldier, smuggler, and whaler, Caleb has learned well to savour any moments of peace and quiet that come his way.

His body has weathered these latest misadventures fairly well. A graze or two that are healing slowly, given the lack of time, attention and nutrition he's been willing to spend on their aftercare. Sore feet, an aching backside going numb from sitting for so long on this rattling cart. But for all that, he's in high spirits, anticipating a warm welcome, a hot meal, and a bed that's at least a few inches above the freezing ground.

"Oh! Santiana gained a day, awaaay Santiana! Napoleon of the west they say..."

A faint thundering perks his attention and he draws his pistol. Along the straight road, three horses come into view. Blue and gold uniforms. Two officers and a scout. And a very familiar determined expression.

_Tallboy._

Tucking away his pistol, Caleb stands on the footrest and throws his arms wide in serenade.

"Along the plains of Mexico! Well, heave 'er up..."

Their galloping only slows at the last possible moment. Singing cheerfully, Caleb pulls the reigns to a stop and drops down as Ben arrives, dismounting quickly and striding over with purpose.

"Awaaaay Santia—"

Ben's tall form eclipses the light as his hand firmly clamps over Caleb's mouth.

"Keep your voice down!" Ben hisses, wildly. He nods once to the two men behind him, who dismount quickly and scamper around to the back of the cart. Caleb pulls down Ben's hand.

"What is this, a robbery?"

"Shhh!"

"Shhh, yerself. Christ, if you knew what I'd been through to get back here, you'd be giving me a damn fairer welcome."

"Has anyone else seen you yet?"

"What's going on? No, you're the first. _Ben._ "

"Where did you get an ox-cart?" Ben says, bewildered. He releases Caleb to examine the wagon, reaches out to brush three rabbit pelts hanging over the side.

"Had to bring me goods back somehow, eh?"

Ben turns at this. "You were on a scouting mission, observe and report—" His eyes widen. "Don't tell me—Abe's letter was true? You've got the pork?" He strides to the back of the cart, Caleb in tow.

"Ah, 'bout that. It was like Abe said, only they weren't where he said they'd be and it took a full night's walk to catch up to them at their garrison—"

The two soldiers are still turning things over. Ben summons a report with a jerk of his head.

"Munitions, sir. Two cases of shot and powder. And some provisions. Potatoes and onions, looks like. Bag of radishes, too."

The officer hands the bag to Ben, who inspects it. He turns to Caleb, who is feeling his earlier peace become more corrupted by the second. "Why radishes?"

"Woulda been turnips," Caleb glowers.

"Some dry goods and sundries, sir," the officer continues, clanking noisily. "Some candles, a blanket. Knives... bit of everything, sir. Oh—" A heavier clank. "A medicine chest, sir!"

Ben latches onto this information like a mongrel and Caleb frowns, unseen.

Ben has always cut a strong figure in the Continental Army. Horse-mounted, wielding a sabre, his sheer physicality only gets let out in the heat of battle. The rest of the time, it stays locked up, none too healthily in Caleb's opinion, pacing behind his eyes and strapped to a desk. He bears it well, of course, his major. But in the sudden heaving breath Ben expels when the officer holds up a roll of fresh bandages, Caleb gets the image of a fraying rope under tension, falling slack moments before it would have snapped.

"Thank the Lord," Ben says, dragging his hands down his face. He turns away a moment, takes a few steps for air, then steps back. "What else?"

It takes a moment for Caleb to realize this bark is directed at him.

"Caleb, what else? Don't look at me like that, you've been gone for nigh two weeks."

"Saving your hide!" He shoves Ben's chest.

"Sir! We've found barrels!"

Caleb has the decency to say nothing.

"Of what?"

"Looks like rum, sir! And a few sacks of tobacco, by the smell, sir..."

For the first time this encounter, Ben smiles. He takes Caleb's unresisting head between his hands. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

A small flush of embarrassment or something else creeps unnoticed across Caleb's chill-bitten cheeks. "I couldn't come back empty handed," he explains, to be on the safe side. "And I found it by accident, more or less—"

"No matter. It's sorely needed, you'll see." He considers the cart. "The pork, you mentioned a garrison?"

"Aye," Caleb says, walking to the front. "I drew some plans. We'll need men to take it, it won't be a simple run. The food back there won't stretch to a platoon, so," he pats the neck of an ox. "I brought beef."

The ox snorts warily, perhaps anticipating its shortened future, but Ben admires the animals.

"Washington needs to hear about this." He looks around. "Where's your horse?"

A stormy look promises a long story, none too dignified.

"Right, never mind. Take Potts'. He can take the cart with Daniels."

The officer pops up his head at the mention of his name.

"Take the food to the storehouse. Sick and wounded to receive first, and get the medicine there too. Munitions to the quartermaster. Anything else of value, keep out of sight. And not a word to the others! I'll know who said it. Stash it somewhere away from camp—"

"What?" Caleb says, interrupting an "Aye, sir!" Ben has already mounted his horse. "Ben, you can't just—"

"No fear, Caleb, I'll not confiscate your gains. But we need them separated for now where no one can find them. I'll explain later. I'll deliver your report to Washington after I show you your new quarters." The thin smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You'll find camp much changed."

+

At the end of their daily strategy meeting, the commander-in-chief hears the report from Caleb's scouting mission with an unchanging expression. Ben leans heavily on the news of the garrison, uses the words "relief", "tide over" and "future supplies" strategically. Billy Lee, a far more reliable weather vane of his master's moods, interprets Washington's terse instructions into a smile and a nod that eases Ben's mind somewhat. Not good news, but good enough.

He'll take it. He has other, more pleasant, business.

Caleb's tucking into beef stew when he finds him at his new quarters, a six-bunk log cabin in the officers' section.

"Let me tell ya," the courier says, before pouring the broth down his throat. "There's nothing so sweet as a bunk, out of the wind, to call your own."

And he looks relieved to be back, in this camp of thousands. He knows his friend is socially minded, nurtured by strong company. But he also knows about his friend's independence, the thrill he gets being alone with the woods. Ben wonders at this. Perhaps because he himself is starting to feel the need to crawl out of his own skin.

Before the cabins were built, there was no hope of privacy beyond what a thin layer of canvas could provide. Even now, the cabins house upwards of half a dozen men on paper, and twice that in practice.

Except this cabin, at present. The other officers recognized the need for a quiet chat, and even if they would begrudge it any other major, the head of intelligence has a sharp look about him these days they're not keen to fuss with. So Caleb and Ben have their small oasis with a crackling fire, and Caleb is slurping noisily his first decent meal in days.

"It's a right mess out there, Ben," he reports, when the bowl is empty. "Patrols every mile between here and Philadelphia. Howe ain't taking any chances. Ye can barely move. And if it's not lobsterbacks, it's skinners and cowboys. And ye never know where you stand with them until they try and rob ye."

"You returned with an ox-cart," Ben points out.

"Bit of luck near the end, there. Was hauling the load on a skip awhile. It's madness, Ben. And few of the old reliables still in service to our cause, I might add."

Ben frowns. "Reliables?"

"Farms. Orchards. You know, the people who've provided before. It's all shaking loose, Tallboy. All the loyalties are shifting. More than a few taverns not looking so friendly anymore."

"To be expected, I suppose," Ben says, bitterly. "They've got their survival to think of."

"Aye, it'd be nice if they thought of mine."

He puts down the bowl and pulls out a firecake. He goes to eat it, then puts it aside. Ben tucks a smile out of a sight. There are some things a man is never keen to return to, and prevailing camp diet is one of them.

"And the dead drops?"

Caleb pulls out two sealed letters from his coat. "Third was empty. Again," he adds, meaningfully. "Bridgewater Township."

"I'm sure Sackett will have a theory about that," Ben says, turning the letters in his hands. He slides a finger under the flap of paper, catching it on the seal. He should open them. The Lord only knows what news they'll bring this time. Another mission, perhaps. Another secret.

Caleb watches Ben dither on the letters, then pocket them unopened. They've waited this long. With any luck, they can wait an hour longer.

"How's the big man?" Caleb asks. "Washington," in response to Ben's mute query.

Ben grinds the ground with his heel.

"His response was... measured. I'm not sure what I was expecting."

"Ben, I'd have gotten more if there was more to get."

"I know. It's not you. You did more than we could have hoped for." _As always_.

"How's Sackett?"

"You haven't seen him?"

"Cart was empty, and—" he nods at the bowl. "More important things."

Yes. Ben realizes with a start that he missed the chance to embrace Caleb, back in the woods. He'd been so focused on keeping his singing down, getting the smuggler's black market goods back without alerting the camp to the return of everyone's favourite worst kept secret. Caleb, the man who could get you anything, hollering shanties fit to bring down timber. Of course Ben had to shut him up, first.

Caleb is seated now, comfortable—impossibly—on the hard wooden slats that make up the bunk. And Ben standing against the other bunks. The moment has passed, truly. It would be unnatural now to haul him upright, collide against him in the way of brothers in arms, a letter's worth of words exchanged in a two-second squeeze. _Thank God you're alive. It's been awful without you._

He'll have to wait, is the dim conclusion. Another return from another mission. Perhaps just a long walk, this time, nothing too far...

He's been quiet too long again.

"Sackett's well. He's developed a new cipher, claims even he can't crack it."

"I'll give him a week before he's decided it's no good," Caleb snorts. "What was the last one, d'ye remember—the one you have to—" He wraps an imaginary code around a cylinder.

"The Spartan _scytale_."

"Aye."

"That's an old one. That's just out of interest."

Caleb busies his hands, wiping down a knife and sticking it in his boots. It's offhand, when he looks up and says, "You're a sight, Ben. Have you been sleeping?"

If Ben wants to lie, he can't. "No. Letters at all hours. The aides looks worse." As if that makes it better. Caleb can picture it, the major rubbing his eyes, squinting to make sense of writing that gets more scrawled as the day drags on. "We'd be having an easier time of it if there were more sense to go around."

Caleb shoots him a worried squint. "You're not sounding like yourself."

Ben dismisses this. "Bradford's in my head, is all."

"Bradford? When did that ratbag get to camp?"

Briefly he describes his misgivings about his speech, their altercation.

"Right," his lieutenant says, standing. "I'm gone ten minutes and that tonker thinks he can—"

"Wait, Caleb, it'll only provoke him."

"No bother, he won't be getting back up."

_Use him as cannon fodder._

Ben moves after him. "Washington won't like it."

"Washington won't— he's out there spreading lies, making your job harder, and you still give a toss about order?" He points an accusatory finger. "You know, Ben, if you hadn't had such a saintly upbringing you'd be more bearable company."

Ben thinks of Sackett, sees Sackett's face. _Temper yourself, young man._ Caleb channels and expresses all the urges that Ben cannot. It's a terrible imbalance when Ben is the most rash of the group.

"What're you smiling?"

"What?" Ben's face drops into blankness.

"You always smile when you're hiding something."

This close to him, Ben can smell heat and must and solid, solid earth.

"I'm just glad you're back."

Caleb's eyes light up at this, the way an honest compliment catches him off guard sometimes.

They're so close, Ben doesn't think. He steps in against Caleb, hands cradling his head, and places his mouth on his. The air rings like a bell and Ben forgets all, feels nothing but Caleb's chapped lips, the tickle of his beard. It's a soft press of a kiss, simple and unadorned. Ben only closes his eyes for a second.

And then he's a major in the Continental army, holding his best friend, who looks at him with complete, mute shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O
> 
> There were so many historical tidbits I compiled for this chapter that I made a [tumblr post](https://enchi-elm.tumblr.com/post/617759507603456000/this-is-a-summary-of-some-of-the-historical).
> 
> [Santiana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FPD-GgP-ZE&t=1s) is my favourite shanty :)
> 
> stay safe, folks, get some rest <3


	5. Flight and Flourish

The return to gravity hits hard.

"Oh." Ben recoils and throws a hand over his mouth, muffling himself. There's a clanging in his ears and he can feel the cabin walls shrink until they must be inches from his skin. "Oh—oh, _God_ , I—"

"Well," Caleb says, and he seems speechless for the first time in living memory. He licks his lip, starts to speak, then raises and drops a hand without purpose. "I think maybe—"

"Don't say anything," Ben demands.

"Ben, I think—"

"Oh, _fuck_." 

Caleb has heard Ben swear, but never quite with this flavour of desperation. The major is doubled over, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Are y'alright, Tallboy?"

A raised finger, shaking. "Don't call me that."

Caleb shrugs a little haplessly. "Would you stand up, Ben? Can ye?"

A pause, then a shake of his head. Whatever has taken hold of him needs a cramped position to release, overwhelming him so completely that his mind is mercifully blank for the duration. A moment's quiet, then Ben unfolds with a long sniff. His face is rigidly composed.

"I need to get back to the men."

Caleb looks him over and barely stifles a laugh. "Can't let you do that."

"Move _aside_ , Caleb—"

"You're in no state—" 

Ben is a few inches taller, but it doesn't help. The scuffle against the door does nothing to clear it. Caleb pushes him off and takes the chance to gesture pointedly at his friend's crotch.

Ben looks down and doubles over again. " _Christ!_ "

"Aye, I'm sure he's amused," and the laughter breaks out in heaving chortles that leaves Ben deeply flushed.

"You think this is funny?" he hisses.

The answer comes plainly as Caleb wipes his eyes. "Och, c'mon, you have to admit the levity of this 'ere sit'ation, Tallboy."

"You bastard—"

Caleb gamely takes the shoves and punches as they come, harmless as they are, managing to get the major into a headlock at last.

"Ea-ea-sy now, easy," he soothes over the sound of Ben's strangled spittle. "Ye've already blasphemed, my son, let's not be calling names now."

Ben's pride has to bottle itself before he's willing to concede. He wrenches himself free, wipes his mouth, and gets his breath back properly. Whatever he was expecting, this isn't it. The world is off kilter and the fact that Caleb is the calm fulcrum of it all is only more infuriating. 

"I need to get out there."

The force behind those words is the same he uses when he's facing Washington, pleading with senior officers. Needing to be heard.

"Aye, in time. After you take care of _that_."

Ben covers himself conscientiously. He can't believe his ears, but then, right now, he can't believe anything.

"What? _Here?_ "

"No, you gob, out there. 'Course, in here."

"With—with you?"

Caleb rolls his eyes heavily. "I'll turn my back."

He does and Ben realizes he's serious. He actually intends to stay here in this cabin while Ben... He lifts a hand, not that he needs to peek to know. Still there.

"Can't you wait outside?" _Oh, please_.

"How d'you think that'll look, me standing against the door keeping guard, all idle like? With every man in camp waving as they pass?"

There is a wild magic in Caleb's voice that can pass nonsense for reason. Ben's fallen prey to it and Caleb's schemes many a time, the way the bastardized Irish lilt turns madness into method.

Addled as he is, Ben nods dumbly, and fumbles to undo the button front fly flap, bypassing it when his hands prove too removed from his focus. He's not one to shy away from what needs to be done, or to argue for a more complicated solution than resources and reason present. For a moment, military discipline wins and he manages to wrap a shaking hand around his length when Caleb starts whistling, loudly.

" _Fuck._ "

"That's good, Tallboy."

"No, I can't, I can't do it."

The look of concern is almost enough to make Ben scream.

"D'ye need a hand, then?"

Caleb crosses to him and Ben feels the bunk in his back as he shrinks away. Caleb's crowding him now, and the lack of any pretense or sense of propriety only heightens Ben's anxiety.

"Haven't you got somethin' sweet to think on? What's your usual fare?"

"My—what?"

"Jaysus, Ben, have ye done this before?"

It takes a split-second for Caleb to realize he's pushed it too far. It almost scares him, to see the unflappable Major Tallmadge wearing a look he hasn't seen since they were children.

He may not enjoy them, but he's always had a way with animals, so Caleb drops his voice. 

"Alright, Ben, it's alright. You know me, I'm just havin' a laugh. Eh? You know I mean nothin' by it, eh?" He raises both hands in a comical display of self-disarmament.

His friend's breath still seems to stick in his throat.

"You can't be walking around half-cocked, and you've got errands need doing. I'm just saying, it'd be no trouble t'... y'know."

And it wouldn't be. He hasn't made a habit of it, but in his seafaring days there was more than one crew member that needed a little tending now and then. They were long voyages and a good crew could become a family of sorts. Besides, the sea isn't a realm touched by laws of rhyme or reason, and a man can go a long way before he finds the tenderness a creaking heart might be in need of.

"Listen," he says, his voice just audible in the still cabin. "Nothing's gonna happen, Ben, that you don't want. Alright? Say the word and I'll leave you be. I'm just offerin' to lend a hand."

Wild horses could not have stopped the smile from sneaking in at the last word. And it's the smile that does it, the unsquashable cheek in this man, that pulls Ben back to their friendship and the trust it's built on.

Madness or method, they always seem to come through on the other side.

"Alright."

Relief rises hot in Caleb's eyes. Then he's all business.

"Right."

His fingers make quick work of Ben's trouser flap and Ben squirms against the bunks, trying to both make it easier and disappear. When Caleb plunges into his smallclothes, he just manages to bite down a yelp.

Caleb's fingers feel huge, covering so much space that he almost feels invaded. It's strange, the warmth of another human, the roughness of a sailor's hands, Ben's lack of control over them, in a space only he's explored so far. A foreign presence— _Caleb's_ presence—is another point to the idea that none of this is really real, or really happening. He fell, on some ice, and blacked out or something, and all this is just an elaborate fever dream. 

"Wait," Ben rasps, and Caleb stiffens. "The door," he says, eyes darting over. "If someone comes in—"

"Right," Caleb says. He thinks about it. "We'll go against it then, come on—"

For the rest of his life, Ben will never forget the ear-scorching absurdity of being manhandled _by his cock_ across the hard-packed dirt. When his back hits the wood, he wants the earth to swallow him completely.

Hard to believe it's freezing outside. Ben thinks he could vanish into the heat from his own face.

When Caleb's hand starts moving, Ben nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Too hard?" 

Is that incredulity in his voice? Ben would believe anything right now, any insecurity. "No, just—wasn't ready—" He can't make eye contact until Caleb seeks out his gaze, raises his eyebrows in question. A shaky nod, and Caleb's hand moves again, more slowly.

Ben studies the ceiling with fervent interest.

He's hyperaware of each stroke, the smooth, even rhythm of it as Caleb warms him up in more ways than one. The sound of Caleb's shirt brushing against his vest as he moves his arm is the loudest thing in the room, and Ben feels a reed-thin breath go in and out of his mouth in matching time. 

A few strokes in and Ben shifts from one foot to another, bothered now and adjusting. Caleb sways with him, like a rider on horseback following a dip in the land. He props a hand behind Ben's back for balance, bumping Ben's arm up and away so it hangs awkwardly to the side. He could let it rest on the shorter man's shoulder. Or the upper arm. Or the elbow. An endless expanse of Caleb more vexing than the hand slowly stroking him off with even patience.

 _We've never embraced like this_ , a dim part of him thinks and he has to suppress a weak laugh.

There's barely a hand's breadth between them. He can't see Caleb's face, angled down in concentration as he is. His beard brushes his chest, but Ben's shirt and vest are too thick to feel it, and for a moment he wants to reach up and touch it, connect with him.

He wants to tilt up Caleb's chin and see his eyes. Didn't this all start with a kiss?

Caleb's head snaps up, and Ben clamps his mouth shut and stares at the ceiling. Did he speak out loud? Did he say anything?

"Ben, is that—"

He can't look at him, but he has to, at the note of worry in his voice.

"It's good."

Caleb scans his face, reading nothing, and ducks his head again. He shuffle-steps, leaving only the width of three layers of cotton between them, and puts his hand higher on the door, almost under Ben's shoulder. 

Ben's sharp of intake of breath doubles as Caleb moves his hand faster, ever faster, with purpose now, hand clenching and massaging all along Ben's cock. Vexations forgotten, Ben grips Caleb's back with both hands, for balance, for anchorage. He can smell his sweat and his heat. Flashes of images run through his mind. He sees Caleb lifting barrels, rowing boats, mounting horses, heaving, lifting, moving—the sheer physicality in his scent overwhelms him and when he comes back to himself, he can barely make sense of the shape of Caleb's head sloping down past his shoulders to his vigorously pumping arm.

The mounting pressure rises up and bucks him into the door. It's stronger than he's used to. The insane need to interrogate it— _Who let you in?—_ but it hits him again and shoots straight down the back of his legs. He hobbles forward, clutching Caleb's shoulders and his pistoning arm for good measure. Caleb takes the brunt of their weight, slapping a hand on the door next to Ben's head as Ben chokes back a painful gasp.

"Are you—"

The stronger it comes up, the urge, the more Ben clamps it down— _Who are you? What are your intentions_ —and then the pain, an odd physical pinch radiating down his length. As he grimaces, he's suddenly sure that this is all terribly, terribly wrong—

"Ben, are you—"

"I _c-can't!_ " 

"What?" Caleb has to seek out Ben's shifting eyes. "Ben, breathe."

"I—I—"

They stumble as Caleb shifts, taking his free hand and wriggling it under Ben's taught waistcoat, under the shirt. He slides it up against Ben's belly, above his taint, and leans into it heavily.

"Ben," he says softly, "It's okay. I've got you."

The weight from Caleb's body slowly suffuses through his palm, like a warm spot of sun into Ben's gut.

"You trust me with your life. _Breathe._ "

And the rush comes, sudden, hot, springing forth from Caleb's finger tips through his belly, flowing out and down and out over Caleb's still moving other hand. Ben arcs forward, crying out in Caleb's hair, arms wrapped around his neck like a lifeline. The spasms rock them gently, Ben's fingers clenching and clenching and slowly easing apart, and he sags onto his friend's frame.

For the span of three long breaths, neither moves, shoulders rising and falling gently like the tide.

The air sings. The cabin creaks, and the cold comes back. Caleb makes sure Ben can stand and pulls his hand free, leaving emptiness and a chill in his wake. Ben slumps against the door, tongue thick and head heavy. His limbs feel wonderfully light and as he draws in a breath deeper than he has all week, he wonders if this is what being drunk is supposed to feel like.

For a moment, neither speaks. Then Caleb brushes his nose in his sleeve, sniffs.

"Right, so."

Ben feels the sweet buoyancy in his lungs and says nothing

"So, you'll be, you'll be good to go, then." Caleb gestures, then holds his hand out to the side somewhat awkwardly. And indeed, the troublemaker that started it all seems to be sated, slackening now.

Ben starts stuffing his shirt back into his smallclothes, taking in with some detachment the cooling wet patch in his trousers. He only jumps when Caleb slaps his upper arm, to buck him up.

"Not so bad, eh?"

Ben stares at his friend. Four languages and nothing comes to mind. He adjusts his sword belt, instead.

"Right, you'll have letters I expect."

Ben nods and turns to open the door. He rests his hand on the door handle as he looks back at the courier still holding his soiled hand away from his side, thinks better of it, and walks out into lightly falling snow.

+

In a small hollow, around a fire pit, the lifeblood of an idle army congeals into grumbling.

"It's horseshit."

"It's not."

"Smells like it."

"They wouldn't."

"They would."

"They wouldn't. And you could tell anyway." A pause. "Let me see." A metal lid clanks. "That's beef."

"Is it? Blimey, it's been ages."

The three soldiers watch the weak steam rising from the pot and settle into their customary gloom like slow-oozing molasses. Then,

"I should write home, d'you think?"

"What on? Leather?"

"I could write home. I _can_ write."

"Yeah, alright, graduate."

"Don't go teasing him. There's no shame in being lettered. Plenty of work for a lettered man. Good work, too."

"It's soft. Writing letters don't bring the harvest in."

"I can bring the harvest in," the youngest sulks. The oldest rolls his eyes.

"We know you can bring the harvest in, Stanley. See what you've done now," he says to the other man. "He'll be like this all day."

"What would you even write about? You can't tell them how it is here, your Ma'd never recover."

"Saw a horned lark today. Could tell her about that."

"They've got larks at home, Stanley."

"Tell you what you won't be writing about," the oldest, Reggie, says. "Von Steuben hollerin' like a beast, chasing us to our early deaths. Crackpot."

"Prussian madman."

The fire pops, once, in moody solidarity.

"Think you'll stay, Fred? Once the bounties are up?"

The middle one thinks about it. "What else have I got? Suppose there's no difference between freezing to death here and freezing back at home with no land. What about you? You had a gel, didn't you?"

"New York."

"Blimey. Think she's still there?"

A shrug. Reggie deflects by nodding at the youngest. "And you?"

"I still think it's right," Stanley mumbles. "Being here."

"Tell you what ain't right," Fred says. "Might not even make it 'til then. Hennings said. Three dead in his platoon."

"You're joking."

"Dysentery."

Reggie spits. "Christ."

"Brass incoming," Stanley warns, and they hush. They pull their shoulders higher and give nods as the officer stalks by, unaware. They sag as he passes.

"Who was that?"

"Major Tallmadge. Top nob. Practically glued to Washington's side."

"Looks like a tosser."

"He is a tosser."

Stanley frowns. "He looked odd. Like, troubled maybe."

"He is troubled. He's all trouble. Him and all the brass. Stay out their way, Stan, you might just make it through this war."

+

By late afternoon, accommodation has been mostly settled. The generals all have farmhouse lodgings, and the commissioned officers are in the newly constructed officer's huts. Perhaps in deference to his unusual post and need for discretion, the head of intelligence has been stationed in an old schoolhouse that forms the third point of a triangle with the officer's huts and Washington's headquarters.

Ben doesn't mind having this corner of camp to himself, surrounded by thick forest and the running creek. His cot is next to his desk in the cramped school room. It's a simple haven, reduced to necessities. The schoolmaster and his wife are elderly and keep to themselves, tending to the house with a puritan austerity that Ben finds familiar and comforting. They are self-sufficient in every sense of the word, and a much-needed counterpoint to the stack of correspondence on his desk.

Time ticks by unnoticed. The letters flow under his pen to form a new stack on the other side, signed and sealed with wax, ready for delivery. Figures and facts, consumed haphazardly over the last weeks, line up orderly and fall into place. He can't remember feeling so productive. When the last letter drops onto the pile with a _ffp_ , he sits back with a creak and watches the sun set.

Suspended, that's the word. A trinket, thrown in the air, and all heads rising to watch it, waiting for the satisfying thump as it finds its home in the catcher's palm.

He feels suspended.

Because what Ben is expecting, what he doesn't feel at all, is shame.

He knows the Bible in four languages, plus the fifth, the language of family. Scripture were his first words, his first way of communicating with the world. And it was certainly the only language, alongside moral rectitude, that was ever spoken in his childhood home. His preacher father saw to that.

And yet what gnaws at him isn't the sense that something has been corrupted, but that something might be lost. Altered, slightly. Changed. 

Even as he thinks it, the thought seems ridiculous. There is one constant in the cosmos, besides God, and that is Caleb's character. There will be ribbing and teasing. He'll pique and provike until he elicits from Ben the few blushes that will serve as his penance. And in a few days, that'll be the end of it.

As he stands he feels the crinkle in his pocket and pulls out the dead drop letters that have patiently waited for their delivery.

He doesn't feel shame. But he still can't get his feet to move.

_Benjamin Nathaniel Tallmadge. If you can't weather a few off-colour innuendos, you have no business wearing this uniform._

+

Sackett's lodgings had been another logistical issue. A civilian has limited use in a military camp, traditionally. And despite his many talents, it would have been unseemly to spare for him rooms more suited to men with commissions. As such, a home has been made for him and his many toys in a farmer's barn, tucked away in a spare corner surrounded by towering stacks of hay. 

Ben opens the barn door and takes a moment to find them amidst the newly disorganized clutter. Sackett and Caleb are together at Sackett's desk, hunkered over in discussion like a band of thieves. Judging by their faces, Caleb is in the middle of a story. As he draws it to its no doubt bombastic conclusion, Sackett cackles like a crow. 

Ben's dumbfounded. Hard to believe the man had it in him. He of a thousand quips and in-jokes he shares with none but himself, always the smartest and lowest-ranking in the room. Perhaps not so strange that he could only feel so at ease with the only other plainclothes man in camp.

He doesn't want to intrude on their moment. But Sackett sees him, and Ben tries not to feel slighted as the levity settles into something more business-like. Not forgotten, but set aside in deference to more serious pursuits.

Caleb's slower, only glancing up when he sees Sackett put on his professional demeanour. Ben should be prepared but he's not, and he evades his gaze.

"Ah, Major Tallmadge," Sackett says, and Ben enters the space proper. "Our Mr. Brewster was just informing me of the latest."

Oh. "Oh?"

"The patrols," Caleb clarifies.

"Yes, quite the elaborately knotted net our fish managed to slip through," and it's Sackett's theatricality at his finest as he peers over his spectacles at the smirking whaler. "By his telling, he was besieged on all sides. I'll let my natural skepticism provide a truer account."

"You'll believe what I tell you," Caleb snorts. "Made it back by the skin of my teeth, and not empty-handed, mind."

"Yes, the _ox-cart_. I imagine some poor farmer must console himself with being a footnote in another of your heroics."

"Ah, you're just feeling left out. Ben, pass him the letters," Caleb says, without looking up. Ben obliges, tossing the letters gently in front of the spymaster. Sackett peers them over, inspecting the seal at eye level before breaking them.

"You've not read them?" he asks.

"No time," Ben demurs, readying himself for the inevitable: a comment, a gesture, something. It comes from Sackett, instead.

"Virginal intelligence, my God. A rarity."

"Don't go getting too excited, Sackett, at your age," Caleb jibes. "A surgeon might not make it in time."

"A crass sort of man is seldom lacking for amusement," Sackett admonishes calmly, peeling apart the paper, "or reprehension."

"You hear that, Ben, he's impugning me. Casting aspersions on my good character."

Despite addressing him, Caleb has yet to look at him again. Ben clears his throat. "Anything?"

Sackett scans the first letter and hands it to him, already reading the next. Ben takes it wordlessly.

> _Dear Mr. Bolton,_   
>  _it is with trepidation that I continue my Duties in your Service for there are unwelcome Visitors in the Township..._

"More troops," Ben mutters. "Is England empty?"

"One does wonder how such a small island can sustain an army on so many fronts," Sackett muses. "It must be straining their coffers considerably."

"So we ain't the only ones broke?" Caleb asks. "Perhaps we can end this war in a debtor's prison."

"It's nothing that Washington doesn't already know."

"Intelligence is much like sifting for copper, major, as well you know. Much silt and clay before the glimmer that makes it all worthwhile..."

"And does that letter gleam?" Ben asks, nodding at the second letter.

"Potentially. It contains an overseen fragment of a journal of sorts. However, it is encrypted," Sackett sighs. He frees his writing arm from his sleeve in a quick jerk and reaches for his quill, bending over the paper.

The faint scritching is the only sound until Ben clears his throat.

"Another thing, Caleb," Ben says, pitching his voice casually. "Those supplies you brought."

"Aye," Caleb says. They face each other now, revealing little in their expressions. Then Caleb smirks. "The ones you stole."

"Borrowed," Ben amends, and steels himself. "I've a proposed purpose for them. I thought we might use them to raise the spirits of the men in camp."

"Aye, Ben. You've grasped the sense of it."

"By using them as gambling prizes."

The split-moment of speechlessness is no less sweet the second time. Ben is not so holy as to deny the sense of triumph it gives to see Caleb looking properly gobsmacked twice in one day. Even Sackett flicks his eyes up from the letter, briefly.

"A tournament?" he asks.

Ben shakes his head. "No, that won't be enough. I intend to use the black market goods to inspire and maintain a steady but controlled amount of gambling. Players against the house, the economics of which are to be regulated by us, in secret."

His verbal flourishes fool no one.

"You scheming bastard," Caleb breathes. "You're setting up a tavern."

"A secret gaming establishment. It'll be spread over three cabins, different games presiding in each. If we can control the flow of goods and supplement it throughout the winter with your contacts in the London trade," a nod to Caleb, "we can keep a steady stream of interest going until the spring thaws."

"All this to keep their spirits up."

"All this to keep their hands busy," Ben emphasizes, "And their gossiping mouths otherwise engaged." The dark undertone is clear. This is no mere profit-making scheme or a way to staunch boredom among the enlisted.

"Rumour is the lifeblood of an idle army," Sackett intones. A fractionally raised eyebrow. "Quite devious, my boy."

"Thank you," Ben says, uncertainly.

Caleb has had time to turn the idea over in his head. It's an attractive one. "Look at you," he says, admiringly. "I leave for two weeks and you start musin' on all manner of things." 

If this is the start to the anticipated teasing, it's uncharacteristically tame. And indeed, it seems to be a mostly innocent remark, as Caleb changes tack. "What'll Washington say about it?"

The silence extends long enough that Sackett looks up again.

"He doesn't need to know," Ben finally says.

Caleb sits back and kicks out his feet. "Now I've heard everything."

"The commander-in-chief is a busy man," Sackett concedes, carefully.

"And it won't be a drain on the army supplies," Ben adds. "With Caleb's... alternative suppliers."

"Do I not get a say in that?" Caleb demands. "Since it's my arse that'll be haulin' all manner of things through these woods. Christ, I barely made it back the last time."

"There's no need to be coy among colleagues, Lieutenant Brewster," Sackett says, evenly. "If it's too audacious a venture to undertake, we understand."

Caleb's expression is vocal: caught, and none too pleased at the ease with which it happened.

"Just think a man has a right to decide his own fate," he mutters. "Have you thought about where you're setting up this establishment?"

Ben pulls up a stool. 

"We'll need three cabins for a camp this size. That's three unfilled lodgings. On paper I can arrange it. I'll billet an extra man per twelve for thirty-six cabins, that shouldn't be too much overcrowding. That'll empty three for us—"

"Nah, you're overthinking it, Ben," Caleb interrupts. "Just put a dozen enlisted men together, give 'em something to gamble for, and it'll happen naturally. They've been plying time for weeks out there. Fact is, you've probably got three dens running in camp already, and the officers none the wiser."

Ben feels his ego pinch, but he spies something in Caleb's face that wants to pass unnoticed.

"Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Is it fact?"

The shrug is too affected to be natural. "Just saying—there's no need to reinvent the wheel. Just, y'know, nudge it a little."

"Right. Well. Eleven men and one of ours. We need a game master, someone we can deal with."

"A game sergeant," Caleb scoffs. Ben and his institutionalized need for hierarchy.

"Someone who knows about the stash and we can feed goods to in secret, someone who'll tell us the state of the market," Ben continues, oblivious. 

Caleb stands and claps his hands. "Well, Ben, you've done a stellar job. But I think I'll be taking it from here."

"What?"

"Now," he placates, "you've done nothing to disgrace the uniform yet—"

Another jibe?

"—and it must be straining your head to be on the verge of dubious dealings. So how's about we let me do what I'm best at, and I'll set up this establishment of yours with some characters I may have been keeping from your attention, eh?"

Ben draws up to his full height. "Characters?"

"Aye. Some sergeants and corporals with an entrepreneurial spirit. Below your notice."

The head of intelligence narrows his eyes a little at this. Nothing should be beyond his notice. But of course, trust Caleb to effortlessly have his finger right on the pulse of what needs to be known in camp, as Ben exercises every ounce of influence learning what needs to be known outside of it.

"Very well," he concedes, grudgingly. "I'll leave it to you to draw up the names of the most... pliable candidates."

"And I'll be shocked at how fruitful my enquiries are, honest."

Sackett puts down his quill and gives his protégés a thin smile.

"And so we embark on debauchery," the clerk declares. "How exciting."

"Aye, it's all well in hand," Caleb says, catching Ben's gaze. And he winks.

Chagrined, Ben feels the world land upright. _Ah._

+

_Hell of a day._

It's night time and the officer's huts are at full strength, though few of the officers are keen to test out the hard wooden slats for themselves. Caleb has no such qualms, lying stretched out on his back on the bottom bunk, listening with half an ear to the low chatter of his new roommates. It's regularly interrupted by the snores of a beefy lieutenant, whose bulk is just visible on the top bunk. The other lieutenants watch him with perverse respect. 

"He's well off, then," Ridgewell remarks.

"Garrick sleeps through cannonfire," Mullcock says. "Bless him, there's no better artilleryman, but the man can saw through a log."

"I'll never sleep," the youngest, an ensign, complains. "Ears of a bat, me."

Caleb can feel the snores vibrate through the ground.

"Brewster's quiet." Ridgewell whittles a wooden chip into the fire. "Perkins, give him a prod, take his vitals."

"I'm well enough to break that finger, Perkins," Caleb warns the ensign.

"Thought you might be dead," Ridgewell says. "You're not usually so reserved."

"Little changes here," Caleb mutters. "And you're no brighter than how's I left you and poorer company."

"Least we get some rest," Mullcock says. "Would hate to be you, Brewster, up and out at a moment's notice."

Caleb sighs. "It's not so bad."

"Aye, he's happy to away from here. Can't blame him."

The upstart ensign is getting on Caleb's nerves. "Perkins, if ye're so bored, why don't you cross the sound in the dead of night next time."

"You get off on it, Brewster, don't pretend you don't," comes Ridgewell's remark. "You keep one hand on the boat's rudder and one on your own."

"Aye, steer true!"

Caleb plays the good sport and chuckles along with the rest, though quieter and a fraction delayed. 

They quiet down and Caleb listens to the fire. There's a strong, dank smell. Woodsy, organic. On the brink of decay, for all these cabins are less than a day old. _Less than a day, and already christened._

Mullcock is standing against the door. Caleb looks at him for a long moment, the way the shadows flicker over his gaunt frame. A thin man, though he wears it well. It's not his build as much as his stance that stirs Caleb's recent memories.

With a grunt, he swings his legs over the edge of the bunk and strides over.

"Alright, out the way."

Mullcock snorts. "For what, a piss? Just do it in here."

"I'm not takin' a piss, I'm tendin' to me needs."

If Mullcock is going to move, he's not going to do it charitably. "You'll let the cold in."

"I'll be quick, man. Now move, I can't do it in 'ere. I'm a good-lookin fella, youse likely to get ideas."

A good-natured huff and the lieutenant steps aside. "Watch it doesn't snap off in your hand."

Caleb opens the door the promised fraction and slips outside. The cold is like a slap, but the silence soothes all ills.

Caleb walks around the side of the cabin and leans against it.

He can still hear Ben's choked grunts, how desperately he tried to keep them to himself. He can smell him, or he thinks he can, just barely. It's the warmth he remembers, the bulk of Ben's body against his own, the strain of keeping them both standing. Holding them both up. 

The way Ben's arm gripped him, as if he was being tossed by waves. The sudden pull as he yanked him close, bringing his lips to Caleb's forehead. The dampness of it, the heat. And under his palm, the tense coil that yielded, plummeted, gave in to his touch. The mewling cry that makes him crest even now—

With one hand on the side of the cabin, Caleb kneels in the snow, head bowed, jerking himself off furiously to the ghost of Ben's breath in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [this glossary](https://www.americanheritage.com/lost-words-colonial-america-glossary#6) of colonial slang:  
> flight - a light fall of snow  
> flourish - sexual intercourse engaged in hastily
> 
> A big thank you to fandom deity [lupismaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupismaris/pseuds/Lupismaris) for getting the ball rolling on my first ever AO3-published M-rated scene *covers face*
> 
> I am starved for conversation and multiple people in a room, can you tell?  
> This next update will take a little longer as I sort out some personal issues. Stay safe, stay kind, and if you were to leave a comment, you'd be giving me much needed encouragement these coming weeks <3


	6. Shaky Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gambling provided a vocabulary and a set of concepts for understanding and talking about that which was uncertain or unpredictable. [...] A number of texts characterized the gamester as an atheist who denied God's providence in everything, resorting instead to a sacrilegious faith in the all-determining power of chance. [...] In a bygone age the chain extending from God to his lowest creation had seemed fixed and secure. Now God was abstracted from the world and His representative, the King, stood on shaky ground."
> 
> — Justine Crump, [The perils of play: Eighteenth-century ideas about gambling](https://www.histecon.magd.cam.ac.uk/docs/crump_perils.pdf)

Caleb wakes up before the others by an hour. It's an animal wakening, a slow affair, unhurried. He barely stirs as he comes to his senses. As the baseboards of the bunk above him come into focus, he realizes how much light is creeping through the slits between the logs. _Have to do something about that._

He climbs out, stiffly, and spends a few moments silently easing his joints into some kind of compliance. His back gives him grief, sometimes. It's never easy hauling a skip in and out of the water. He's learned to warm himself up when he can.

However, there's no hope of being limber when his breath is forming clouds, so he kneels and gets a fire going. With the first pops and crackles, he catches Mullcock leaning out over the edge of his bunk.

"Good man," Mullcock mumbles, then rolls back for a few more minutes of sleep.

\---

Caleb's fire is in full swing, and Ridgewell has left to replenish their dwindling wood supply. It took ten minutes to break the ice in the bucket with the butt of a musket. A pot of water is on the boil while the others sit in the cabin, varying degrees of functional in the liminal space of officers at rest on a winter's morning. A breakfast of dried beef strips goes down slowly, much chewed. Oiling his pistol, Caleb's eyes flick over to the door once or twice.

"He'll be back," Mullcock says, pouring boiling water into a kettle. Lord knows where he found it, or the tea ration floating serenely within it. Jameson Mullcock is a man of simple pleasures and seems willing to compromise on almost everything else. A new acquaintance, though Caleb is learning much about the man. His anemic colouring—the man is almost deathly pale, with eyes the colour of a clear winter sky—belies a spirited athleticism and a sharp intelligence.

"Who?"

"Frederico. Ridgewell," Mullcock clarifies, after a beat. The Portugese. "He's just off to get logs."

"I know," Caleb says, buffing the pistol barrel.

Ridgewell is a handsome man, if you go for that sort of thing. Sun-kissed skin, warm and alive even in this horrid freeze. A favourite among his company, one of the few lieutenants the sergeants don't bad-mouth in private. For all that, Caleb can't see him keeping his captain in line if the need were to arise.

There's an art to being a second-in-command, Caleb knows. Sometimes an order needs a bit of interpretation, if not outright improvisation. A little indiscipline can go a long way.

Perkins has far too much of it, if Caleb is any judge. Clever enough for the rank he's got, but likely to lose it if his sloppiness isn't addressed. Caleb's all for some creative license, but only if it serves a purpose.

The last bunk is yet unfilled, though rumour has it it'll be a captain from another regiment. An odd mix, though with soldiers piling in from the whole coastline, it's a blessing there's accommodation for all.

But of his newfound company, these men aren't Caleb's current concern.

Lieutenant Arthur Garrick, he of the legendary snore, moves with surprising care for all his bulk. The red spots on his cheeks stay regardless of heat or cold, though the rest of him is temperate enough. Caleb has been with him on the battlefield and knows no one better at setting the angle of a cannon to disastrous effect.

Unsurprising, then, that he sets up a shaving basin with equally methodical care. Garrick settles into his favourite and only vanity when he glimpses the whaler in his small shaving mirror.

"Playing the dandy?"

"Some of us have to look the part, Brewster," Garrick says, tilting his reflection away from the offending sight.

"Why bother? Come supper it'll have grown back."

"Is that why you stopped?"

Caleb grins. "Aye. Confuses the enemy."

"Confuses us all. Can't tell you from the forest beasts half the time."

"It's a stealth tactic. Something a cannon cocker like you wouldn't understand."

Garrick shakes his head and lines up the razor blade for another pass.

"You still playing dice with the men?" Caleb says, pulling up an overturned bucket and sitting down.

Garrick waits for a smooth pass down his cheek before he answers.

"Aye, most days."

"Ye're a fool, then, Arthur," Mullcock says, warming his hands on his pewter mug. "We make little enough."

"Fools is them who plays to win," Garrick comments. "I play not to lose. Good nights I can break even."

"An intellectual," Mullcock teases.

"But there's a dice game," Caleb persists, "Still going?"

"Aye, if you've someone to vouch for you."

Caleb licks his lip, nods at him. "Got you, don't I."

Defeated, Garrick rests his razor hand on his knee and turns a half-shaven face to his cabin-mate. He looks him over before speaking.

"You've never wanted in on the action before."

"Wasn't anything worth winning before," Caleb says. "Might be I could change that. Make it interestin'."

Garrick might be the experienced gambler, but Caleb knows when he's got a fish on the hook.

"With what?"

Caleb shrugs. "What's your fancy?"

He can feel the thoughts ticking over behind Garrick's squint. Caleb has a bit of a reputation among the commissioned officers, one he's worked hard to polish and embellish where necessary. There's no doubt that he's a shifty lunatic with a penchant for rashness and recklessness that only the tightest of reigns or loosest of military objectives could employ successfully, but the bastard can get his hands on things, you have to leave him that—

"Fine, I'll take you."

"Ye're a gentleman, Arthur Garrick. A gentleman and a friend."

"And ye're a scoundrel and up to no good, Brewster."

"Aye, and that's how you'll introduce me," Caleb pushes, getting to his feet.

"Aye," Garrick says, returning to his shaving. "Later."

The cabin door opens and closes under the sharp gaze of four previously warm officers. Ridgewell stomps the snow off his boots and drops a pile of logs onto the ground.

"Roll call," he announces. "All the regiments. Some sort of demonstration."

Mullcock sighs and pours out his tea slowly. "Always the way."

"Enjoy," Caleb says, tossing a log onto the fire.

" _All_ officers," Ridgewell says, taking a sheaf of paper and slapping it into Caleb's chest. Caleb thumbs through it with greasy fingers.

"What's this?"

"Military manoeuvres," Ridgewell says, passing copies to the rest. "Fresh off the press. Von Steuben's new military exercises. Says we've got to know them."

"Maybe youse lot—" Caleb starts.

"Regiment commander asked for you too," Ridgewell shrugs. "Said all officers to be present at the demonstration field."

"Hard luck, Brewster," Garrick says. "Guess you're still one of us."

Caleb stares at the pages of dense print. "Doesn't want me to shave, does he?"

"Don't bother," Mullcock says, straight-faced. "That way he won't spot you."

\---

The Prussian import Baron von Steuben has been training his model military company for a week. It's been hard to miss, his stomping and hollering and "Goddam!". His theatrical flair carries an element of self-awareness, and he plays it up and down to the desired effect. But his exactitude is legendary, and the few onlookers his training has gathered have been glad to be beyond his purview.

Now, however, satisfied with his model unit's progress, the time has come to train the rest of the military, starting with the officers. The demonstration soldiers, freshly shaved and fully equipped, stand in strict formation, looking keen and sharp. Far from being intimidated by their sniggering comrades, they stand tall, proud and uniform, eyes of a level, as if already trained on a target. The effect is more than a little disconcerting.

"To the left... Face!"

The unit turns as one.

"To the right about... Face!"

One-hundred and twenty men swivel with perfect centre of gravity to face the front.

Caleb is on the periphery with the other cavalry officers of the New York Regiment. As usual, his official place among the line up is somewhat contested, and he slots himself into a gap on a horse that's not his. Around him, the crowd watches with rapt attention.

"Cock—firelock!"

Washington is here, too, lined up with his aides at the best vantage point. Among them, slightly out of formation, Major Tallmadge surveys the display with an impassive expression. As the soldiers raise the muskets to their shoulders, Ben glances left, scanning the rows until he sees Caleb's broad-brimmed hat. Before Caleb can so much as nod, Ben's horse shifts and he looks away.

"Take aim! Fire!"

Caleb's head snaps back as the volley cracks into the trees. The Baron's face is triumphant in his dramatics as the smoke clears. _Showy_ , Caleb thinks. And wasteful. Where had they even scrounged the powder?

"Second line! Fire!"

The rear line fires as the front takes a knee and reloads. It's a familiar position, one he recognizes instantly from the battlefield. An unflinching red row of death. To see it re-enacted in brown and blue is eerie. Effective, though. He can't deny its lethality.

Washington agrees, if his thin-lipped smile is anything to go by. The demonstration finishes with an orderly march into the barracks, and Washington leads his caravan in the direction of his headquarters, no doubt for another long deliberation.

\---

By the time night falls, Garrick is another snoring pile among many that won't move for love nor money, and Caleb resigns himself to staring at the printed pages, trying to make sense of the military manoeuvres.

The next day passes similarly, though Caleb manages to avoid being called to the field to train his own company in the style of the demonstration the day before. He tries the drill pages again—he does have to know it, after all—then collects pieces of twig and forest debris to move around in the dirt in simulation of the troops. It helps, a little, but after an hour's concentrated effort he visits the artifciers and passes most of the day collecting gossip and helping the blacksmith with the bellows.

When Mullcock, Garrick, Ridgewell and Perkins come back to the cabin, they look to have about three wits left between them. They pass around a flask, and pass out in short order.

"Tomorrow," is all Garrick says, when Caleb reminds him sharply of his promise. Then he's snoring.

The next morning Caleb makes Garrick swear on his razor blade to take him gambling that night. He agrees, unfazed, and joins his troops on the field soon after, leaving Caleb to entertain himself much as he has the day before.

When a hand reaches out and grabs him as he's passing through camp on an errand from the quartermaster, he's pleased to see it's Ben pulling him between two cabins for a talk. He's been a stranger these last two days, unusual when they're both in camp together. The army restructuring has demanded his full attention.

If he had to admit it, he's not thought much about Ben directly. Not deliberately. It comes to him in ripples, in quiet moments between the busyness. Little things. Noises. Warm puffs of breath. Enough to make him think of glassy crowns in water, and the tricks that sea spray can play on a sound mind. _Was that a flick of a tail? Was that a shadow?_

"Well?" Ben says.

His eyes are bright, feverish and there's a flush to his cheeks. Caleb has a split second to feel warmth mingling with concern—sickness has been rampant in camp—before Ben presses on, "Are you in?"

Caleb stares at his friend, not comprehending.

"And a bonny afternoon to you too, major," he says, buying time.

Ben entreats mutely with his penetrating gaze and Caleb matches it with sheer obtuseness. Finally, it dawns.

"The _den?_ "

"Yes, Caleb. The gambling den. Is it operational? Did you turn them?" Every ounce of his face is sincere.

"Are you serious?" Caleb barks a laugh, then stops. "How long did it take for us to get an agent in New York, Ben?"

"This is our _own camp_ —"

"How long?"

Not for the first time, the major doesn't answer a challenge he knows he'll lose.

"Washington's given orders to recapture three deserters this morning," he redirects. " _Three_. If we can't turn the men's disposition soon, I don't know what will happen."

"I do—enough grub left for the rest of us," Caleb snaps. "Give it time, Ben. Let me do what I do best."

The major can't help but nettle further. "Have you found the gamblers at least?"

Caleb sighs heavily. "Didn't take long."

"And the gambling establishment?" Equal parts hope and dismay mingle in the question. "There is one already, I presume."

"Making contact tonight." Caleb puts on an officer's inflection. "Will the good major be joining his right-hand man as he delves into immoral depravity or does he have limits to his curiousity?"

Ben shies away at that. "No, the less I know, the better."

Caleb pats Ben's chest as he stalks past him. "Aye. Keep those hands clean, Ben."

\---

That evening, Garrick returns early from his field duties. Not long after, Caleb is feeling properly himself again, stalking through the early darkness, close to the treeline. After days of sitting around camp trying to be useful without attracting too much attention from anyone who would put him to serious use, it feels good to be on a mission of dubious morality and poorly defined parameters.

The enlisted men's camp has become a shanty town. The huts aren't much larger than the officer's huts, and they're close enough together for impromptu shelters to have cropped up between them. Camp fires dot the alleys and rows, and everywhere men are huddled in groups, puffing tobacco and stirring pots with likely not much in them. A few women are hunched over piles of linen, some sewing, some scrubbing out stains with snow.

Garrick's uniform causes little comment and few raised heads. If not a familiar sight, it's one they're learning quickly to ignore.

They walk up to a cabin near the edge of camp. Caleb can already hear voices from within, but Garrick pauses outside.

"Just between us," he says to his cabin-mate. "You're planning something, aren't you."

"Ain't for you to know about."

Garrick nods, once.

"If you ruin this place for me, I'll find you on the field."

"You won't be the only one," Caleb says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Garrick knocks on the wooden door, a disjointed tattoo that holds more meaning to him than to Caleb. The door opens a fraction.

"I'm here to see Ned Stokes," Garrick says, through the crack. The parole is accepted and the gap widens to let them in.

Inside, it is packed. No less than two dozen men in a space already tested by half that. Some crouch together on the ground, clearing only a small space for dice to roll. Others line the walls, fill the bunks in chatting bunches, a general hub bub that's almost as blanketing as the fetid air of two dozen men breathing in the same damp space. One or two candles are lit haphazardly, burning low. The fireplace is lit, mostly for light, as the heat it provides stifles the cabin further.

"Jaysus," Caleb mumbles.

"Oy, who's this?"

The soldier who let them in tries to peer around Garrick to eyeball Caleb.

"Friend of mine," Garrick says, though it looks like it pains him to admit it.

"Right, well—"

"Lieutenant Brewster, 2nd Company, New York Regiment," Caleb says, playing the rank card. "I'm not here to grass, so shut your pie hole."

It works. The man shrinks away amid mumbled "sir"s.

Having performed his escort duties, Garrick manoeuvres his way through the throng of seated men to join his regulars near the bunks. Caleb scans the space.

He's a seasoned gambler in his own right, though on land it seems pointless when there are so many other vices to indulge. It's too stable under his feet, anyway. Without the gentle rocking of the water to accompany a wager, the ever-present reminder that a few planks of wood separate you from cool oblivion, can you really be claiming to be putting your faith outside the laws of providence?

He's not one for numbers, another reason his gambling has never taken more than a recreational leaning. But many long nights on a harpooning vessel have taught him to read players, if not a room, and as he picks over the seated groups he can recognize a few of the types. Of the four seated clusters, three are casting dice and bets haphazardly, motivated by the continued promise of stimulation in the forms of short-lived highs and lows. Only one group seems to be conspicuously subdued, and the hand movements are quick and purposeful, advancing the game with little time for pleasantries or second-guessing. His cabin-mate is among these players.  
Caleb picks his way toward him.

"Garrick." He drops a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder with a satisfying clap. Garrick barely takes his eyes off the dice.

"Hm."

"One last thing, if you'd be so obliging." Caleb crouches down for privacy. "How'd you hear about this place?"

"Shepherd found me," Garrick says, blithely. "Heard I was a keen gamer back home, wanted to get some regulars attending."

"Show me."

Garrick tears his eyes away from the game and nods in a direction. Three men stand against the wall, and by the ease of their stance Caleb guesses it's their cabin he's sitting in. The hosts of this little social venture. Two are chatting blithely, sharing swigs from a clandestine flask. The third is a walking deception. Any ease of his stance is feigned, though it's slight enough to make out. A sharp lift of his head at a loud laugh is all it takes to betray him.

The youth can't be much older than nineteen. He's yet to grow into his shoulders, which sloop down into arms that he's not quite mastered either. His gaze circles the cabin like an errant gull. It brushes across Caleb's face, a hint of recognition, soon passing over to peruse the rest. Caleb tries to make out the epaulette on the man's shoulder.

"He found you? A corporal?"

"Relayed a message through his sergeant. Discreetly," Garrick adds, pointedly.

Caleb watches the corporal from across the cabin thoughtfully. He gives Garrick's shoulder one last squeeze (waved away by the lieutenant impatiently) and gets to his feet. A short wobbly walk later, Caleb leans against the wall beside the young man.

"This cabin yours?"

"Yes, sir. Corporal Lachlan Shepherd, 8th Connecticut Regiment."

He rattles off the information without a stutter. Likely, he's been ready to deliver it since he spied Caleb across the room.

"I know you," the corporal adds, in a rush. "You're Lieutenant Brewster."

"Heard of me?"

"A bit." He goes to speak then reconsiders the wisdom of it.

Caleb dismisses his hesitation. "If it's worse than what I've seen fit to circulate meself, I'll be impressed."

Shepherd gives a short smile, torn between deference to rank and the outlandish leather outfit before him. "Just that you're a man that knows how to get his hands on things. A man who listens."

Caleb snorts. "Usually I'm just a man who talks."

There's a cautious silence between them.

"You're not playing, sir?" Shepherd ventures.

"Don't seem worth it," Caleb shrugs. "Dice ain't my game. The risk don't feel real."

"But you're here, sir," Shepherd prods, gently.

"Aye. Like you said, I'm one to listen. Once I heard of this place, thought maybe there'd be someone here worth listening to." He nods in acknowledgement of a bold move. "You know our commander banned gaming."

Shepherd shrugs, confirming that he's the brains behind this operation. "Better in here, safely, than out there. Besides..." He stops again, not sure how much to share. "I'm not sure the general-in-chief's worried about gaming so much as it happening where he can see it, sir."

"You're not risking much, are you," Caleb comments. "A hundred lashes and a court-martial."

A lightning flash smile. "Now, would that be a risk real enough for you, sir?"

Caleb has to respect the cheek, though he curbs it with a warning look.

"You're a man sure of his talents, aren't you?"

"S'why I joined," Shepherd grins, like he's divulging a secret. "Got plans to make a name for myself."

"Oh, aye?"

"That's what our country's about. Equal opportunity. A place where any man can scrape a fortune together, if he's smart enough and willing."

_You poor sod. You still believe that._

"If I were of a mind to be making a name for myself," Caleb starts, "I'd start by making myself likable to my men. And useful to my superiors. Once you're the man everyone knows can keep a secret, you end up with a lot of secrets to keep."

Shepherd nods. "I've been thinking along those lines."

"Is that why you put the bite on Lieutenant Garrick?"

Shepherd flushes scarlet, and Caleb hadn't guessed he'd know that piece of slang.

"Wasn't _like_ that—I just asked if he was keen on gaming—" the corporal sputters, though Caleb's already waving it off, levering a heavy arm around the man's shoulders.

"I can tell you're a man who likes a bit of elevated company, learnin' from your betters and that. No shame in that, to my mind. There's room in this army for men who've got a sense to get ahead."

Shepherd doesn't answer, caution finally winning the upper hand.

"Now, man like you with...", Caleb gives him a brief once-over for inspiration, " _vim_ and cunning, could be a man like that sees an opportunity here."

Shepherd glances up at this.

"You had the right idea, getting brass like Garrick in here," Caleb continues. "But Garrick, see. He's a tight bastard. What you need is officers that play a bit more... loose."

"Right," Shepherd says. He watches Caleb's face like it's preaching scripture.

"Before you know what bait to set, you've got to know your game. Now officers, officers is choosy folk. They like a bit of extras with their amusement. Bit of trimmings. You've seen 'em dress."

Shepherd nods.

"Place like this," Caleb tilts his head at the cabin, "with some grog, you can get your corporals and sergeants coming steady. Sergeant major might be some trouble, they're too busy trying to hobnob with lieutenants."

It's a right pain, too. Not many try it with Caleb, but there's the odd one or two with an eye on the special privileges of joining Tallmadge's exclusive group, and plenty of quick dissuasion to be dispensed.

"Right, right."

"But you'll never get the brass in here with the non-commissioned officers and the enlisted," Caleb finishes, removing his arm and straightening. "Oil and water. Can't be done."

"You're saying we need soap," Shepherd offers eagerly, trying to get ahead in the conversation. Caleb stumbles a little, thinks that over.

"Right. Soap, yeah. _Or_... you set up another little cabin. Just like this one. Make it a bit special. Get your sergeants happy here, and they'll shine up to their betters with a bit of inside information about a place they can escape to, when the pressure's on and the brass are shouting. Soon you might be able to pull in ensigns and lieutenants—"

"And majors," Shepherd insists, eyes wild.

 _Christ above_. This man had no sense of reality.

"Man, you'd be lucky to get a captain, that's the truth of it. But lieutenants is good. Captains is running ragged, trying to make majors and colonels look good, but lieutenants, all they do is gossip and run around trying to make their captains happy." Caleb sniffs. "When they're not doing all his work."

In the pregnant silence that follows, Shepherd clears his throat.

"Always thought lieutenants weren't 'ppreciated enough."

Caleb looks at him. "Yeah?"

The corporal knows when to take an opening. "Yeah, 'cause like... 'Cause when a captain goes down in the field, an L.T. has to take over, right?"

"Yeah. Right."

"Right, and... 'cause like how often's that happened so far? What, half a dozen times this campaign alone?"

Caleb considers this. It's true. Captains commanded a company of usually a hundred men, and relied heavily on their lieutenants to assist. They were an easy target, if you wanted to disorganize the enemy. In the heat of battle, should a captain go down, his second-in-command had to be ready, tactics memorized, battle plan on hand, able to lead the men without a moment's hesitation.

"So, when you think about it," Shepherd pushes, "a lieutenant's just a captain waiting to be a captain, right? So why's they not being paid like one?"

There's almost a logic there. Caleb's impressed.

"I see you've got a keen mind, corporal."

"Always keen to learn, sir." He shifts a little. "Er, sir. If I was to do it like you said, set up another place like this... I don't suppose you'd know where I'd be able to get my hands on them trimmings you mentioned. The kind officers like."

"Hmm," Caleb says. He strokes his beard. He's not used to playing both parts of this double act. He wonders if a helmet would help him get into character. "Well, might be I've got some things that'd help. But there's no way you can afford them on a corporal's pay."

Not that he'd ever get that money from anyone now.

"I could get a surety? Might take some time to get together, but I'd be good for it."

Caleb sucks his teeth, ignoring the unfamiliar suggestion. "Well... I'd have to think on it. I'd be willing to take a favour, if I knew I could trust you."

"You can, sir!"

"Mind you, it's a big responsibility, running an officer's club. Needs a steady head, even temperament."

"I'm the man for the job, sir."

"Hmm." Caleb agonizes for a long while, then sighs heavily. "Tell you what. If you prove your wit, keep this place running smoothly, I'll see what I can do about getting you things for another cabin. Now, part of this is, you learn to follow instructions, do what I ask."

"Anything, sir."

"Time'll come, I'll come with goods set aside for a specific purpose. A lottery. You take the names of the men present, toss 'em in a hat. Pull one, winner gets a prize. Do this every few days. It'll draw people quick and keep 'em guessing when their lucky night is."

Shepherd thinks this over. "You want me to move your goods for you?"

"I want what you want. I want soldiers playing dice and coming here to stay clean of any trouble out in camp. Now youse already got a cabin all set up, all I'm doing is giving you the means to keep 'em here."

"Without cost?" Shepherd niggles, determined to find the loose thread.

Caleb swallows a scream and feels his hand flex. _Damn it, Ben_. "You hold that lottery. You manage to keep it quiet and get enough interest, I'll get you your sundries. And a stream of officers besides."

Shepherd weighs this from multiple angles. He's getting the better of this deal, that much is clear. And he's not completely stupid.

"What're you getting out of this?"

"Rest assured, boy, you'll be owing me a favour for this." _A big one, and you ain't the only one_. "But I know talent when I see it, and I like seeing talent where it's needed. Higher up," Caleb adds, pointedly, brushing his shoulders meaningfully. "Now, you in, or do I have to deal with another wabler smart enough not to argue with gift horses?"

"We'll deal," Shepherd says quickly. "I'll not cause trouble, sir. You'll see."

 _Aye_ , Caleb thinks. _You'll do nicely_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Thank you for your patience, dear readers. It's been a turbulent time.
> 
> Baron von Steuben was a gay Prussian aristocrat skilled in military discipline and warfare. He was indeed brought to the States specifically to make the disorganized Continental Army into a cohesive unit, and he did it by publishing what would become [The Blue Book](https://warroom.armywarcollege.edu/wp-content/uploads/Von-Steubens-Blue-Book.pdf), which was standard military practice until 1812. It remains the drill manual of choice for historical re-enactors today.
> 
> The motions and terminology the soldiers are demonstrating are taken directly from von Steuben's manual. He did indeed use a model company of 120 men to train the army's officers.
> 
>  _Ned Stokes_ is 18th Century [slang](https://www.geriwalton.com/slang-euphemisms-and-terms-letter-n/) referring to the four of spades in a deck of cards, for reasons unknown.
> 
> A _wabler_ was a contemptuous term used in the cavalry for a foot soldier.
> 
> To _put the bite on someone_ is some primo, 18th Century British queer slang, coined by "mollies", which was the main term used for an effeminate man who had sex with other men. It means to "arrange for sex", and Caleb is using it teasingly here just to mean that Shepherd clearly set his sights on Garrick for a purpose. (Taken from pg. 45 of [Male-Male Intimacy in Early America](https://books.google.ca/books?id=Isi3AwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false) by William Benemann. Best. Book. Ever.)


	7. Tremor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To be an object of desire—to be prized for one's manliness by an "other"—was positive and ego affirming regardless of the gender of the admirer. To have the skill and the means to bring pleasure to another person—particularly someone whose strength and masculinity were evident and unquestioned—was an act of empowerment for the pleasurer."
> 
> — [Male-Male Intimacy in Early America: Beyond Romantic Friendships](https://books.google.ca/books/about/Male_male_Intimacy_in_Early_America.html?id=q7TPqeUa9UIC&redir_esc=y) by William Benemann

It's mid-morning in the barn, and Caleb's account of the night before has been delivered as completely as Caleb can bring to render, considering the amount of drinking that went on as the deal was ratified into the early hours.

Despite his friend's predilection for tall tales, Ben believes every word. Sackett, as far as anyone can tell, is pleased as well, though wild horses would not get him to count his chicks before they hatched.

"I don't doubt the corporal's competence, nor his motivations. No, I credit your assessment of his character," the clerk placates, "but it's ambitious thinkers that are prone to all kinds of troublesome self-interest."

Caleb has already confirmed that Shepherd is a rank-climbing weasel. Ben is becoming an experienced handler quickly, and knows that, of all the vices that lure an asset into service, promotion within the ranks is one of the easiest to accommodate.

"I suspect we'll keep him well in our pocket if we dangle a sergeant's epaulettes in front of his nose," Ben says.

"The problem with his sort is they're liable to grab a promotion wherever they can, even if it means taking command from another company leader," Sackett says. "We'll have to keep him on a tight leash."

"He's a wily one," Caleb warns. "Keen sense for butterin' up to his betters. And some interestin' ideas, for a corporal. Got half a mind to ask my old captain for equal pay."

"Aren't I your superior now?" Ben asks, wrinkling his nose.

A short sharp glance clearly states what Caleb thinks of that. Sackett sits up as a thought comes to him.

"What were the gentleman's rank and regiment, did you say?"

"Corporal Shepherd of the Connecticut Regiment, 8th Company."

"There was some report of trouble with that particular company." He rifles through his desk and peers at a paper. "Yes, a planned assault on their commanding officer."

Ben and Caleb wear opposite expressions.

" _What?_ "

"Yes, caused quite the stir at the time, though the story was quickly suppressed lest it give the other regiments ideas. They filled the captain's canteen with gun powder, I believe. Nearly managed to light it, too. The plot was uncovered when one of the would-be perpetrators notified their sergeant. Likely saved the man, though by all accounts he's an insufferable captain."

Caleb lets out a low whistle.

"He's alive, then?" Ben asks.

"Oh, yes, and still in command most likely."

"Ah well, if at first you don't succeed," Caleb winks.

Ben has to admit there are more than a few officers he'd offer up to that kind of vigilante justice. But the thought of the number of disgruntled men increasing as the winter goes on is a worrying one.

"It seems drastic," he says, weakly. "Resorting to... harassment."

"Attempted murder," Sackett corrects, "in a decisively spirited way."

"Gotta watch out for those Connecticut lads," Caleb says, grinning. "Always worth a surprise."

Ben's rebuttal gets lost when he sees Caleb's hand drop casually in his lap. The placement cannot be a mistake, though the twinkle in his eye could be convincing either way. It's cruel. Ben's sleep is already haunted.

He casts about for a suitable comeback and a rolled sheaf of papers poking out of Caleb's coat provides the fodder.

"Have you made any headway with those yet?"

Bullseye. Caleb's demeanour cracks to the floor.

"Been busy," he growls.

"Come on, then, let's have a look."

Caleb hands over Von Steuben's latest printings with some misgiving, and Ben theatrically holds them aloft.

"'Instructions for the Lieutenant'," he announces, and four years of Yale education make themselves known as his voice raises to the rafters. "'The lieutenant, in the absence of the captain, commands the company, and should therefore make himself acquainted with the duties of that station. He must also be perfectly acquainted with the duties of the non-commissioned officers and soldiers, and see them performed with the greatest exactness.'"

Caleb gives him a baleful look and slumps down with some disdain. Sackett keeps his amusement confined to a thin line, but even it tweaks at the corners.

"'He should—'" Ben stops short, then starts again after clearing his throat. "'He should endeavour to gain the love of his men, by his attention to every thing which may contribute to their health and convenience—'"

He stops again. Caleb appears not to notice, sunken in misery at the general prospect of his duties. Ben does not trust himself to look at Sackett.

"'He should often visit them at different hours,'" he continues, "'inspect into their manner of living, see that their provisions are good and well cooked, and as far as possible oblige them to take their meals at regulated hours.'"

"What am I, a bloody cook?" Caleb mutters. He gestures for the pages, and Ben is relieved to be rid of them. Caleb finds the place and continues,

"'He should pay attention to their complaints, and when well founded, endeavour to get them redressed, but discourage them from complaining on every frivolous occasion.' Feck's sake." He tosses the pages on the table. "Ben. Demote me."

"The ensigns aren't any better."

"No. All the way down. Make me a foot soldier."

Sackett guffaws and Ben suppresses a smile. "You don't want that."

"Have I not given you cause enough?!"

"I very much doubt you'll find peace of mind there," Sackett says, far too cheerfully. "They're expected to dress with a soldier-like air and wash their linens."

"What is this? Is there no place left for me in this army?"

"There's always a place for you in this army," Ben assures him.

"If, as I suspect, it's less responsibility you seek, there are always drummers and fifemen in demand," Sackett supplies. "Or washerwomen."

It is a testament of his respect that Caleb doesn't thump him. "What about you, you grumpy old sod? Where's your set of instructions?"

"I am a civilian," Sackett says, folding his hands over his waistcoat. "According to your dear Baron, I don't exist."

"Aye, none of us do. This is codswallop, anyway. Where's the manual for super secret spywork?"

Ben gestures at Sackett. "He wrote it."

"Aye? And what's my role there? Is smuggling on the official agenda, then? Or will I finally be making it back across the sound?"

"The gambling dens take priority," Ben says. "Culper won't have much to give us now."

"How would we know? I've been laid up in camp for a week."

"We'll get you back there soon enough. For now, keeping a mutiny at bay is more important."

"Everyone's too tired to mutiny," Caleb points out. "They're marching all day, and if they're not marching, they're starving."

"If you're keen for activity," Sackett suggests, "there's a pile of wood outside that needs chopping into kindling."

Facetiously meant or not, Caleb seizes the opportunity to quit the barn's stuffy walls.

"Gladly, if only to remember how to use an axe."

Ben watches him go. Any space Caleb leaves takes time to come to rest in his wake. Left to the handler and the chief intelligence clerk, the barn cools in temperament considerably. Ben waits for the sound of chopping before he speaks.

"He's right, you know. The men are barely hanging on."

"We might have some relief on that score," Sackett says, pulling out the familiar dead drop letter. "Information here for you, Major."

Ben unfolds the envelope and reads the decrypted text quickly. "A shipment of goods? Musket rounds, peas, potatoes—This is—"

"Everything we need and more," Sackett says, pleased. "Arriving to relieve the British regulars at the very garrison we've had our eye on."

Excitement colours his face. "The shipment arrives in two weeks. That's—We have time!" He strides to the door. "I have to tell Caleb—"

"Benjamin."

Ben pulls up short, turning back. There's no further comment from the clerk and his eagerness fades as he comes to the conclusion on his own. Sackett does nothing without weighing his options carefully and that includes the timing of a reveal. In a brief flight of paranoia, he wonders if the wood was prepared ahead of time.

"You waited," Ben says. "You hid this."

"Information of this sort requires a selective audience," Sackett answers, and whether it's a counter or a support to Ben's accusation is only one of many games he has found himself playing with his civilian spymaster.

"We will need a full company to take this garrison," Ben reasons, already feeling defensive, "and scouts besides. The sooner we have more than a rudimentary plan of this encampment, the better our plan of attack will be executed. Caleb's seen it from the inside, he can tell us—"

"Mr. Brewster has already filed his report, including troop numbers, and is uniquely positioned now in a scheme that will sustain cohesion in this camp for months to come. A master stroke of your own planning. His skills are already fully engaged."

Sackett is suggesting the unthinkable. Remove Caleb from the mission? Surely not.

"He's already infiltrated once, without our help. For God's sakes, it would be absurd not to have him scout the place again—He'll want this!"

"And is that where you need him?"

"Where I _need_ him is—"

He stops, curtailing the surprising truth at the end of his claim. Not for the first time this winter, all manner of things find voice when Caleb is absent and Ben is left with no one but himself to speak his thoughts.

"Caleb's the one who found the garrison—" he demurs.

"—and you're his handler, Major. Whatever needs to be done is for you to decide. All I have ensured is the choice to decide when it happens."

Ben can't trust himself to speak.

"This is not intended to insult your affinity for each other," Sackett continues, "nor to torment your conscience. Few friendships enjoy the loyalty you have cultivated with Mr. Brewster, but you are a commander. An unusual army, yes, scattered over the colonies and with no uniform to declare allegiance, even to one another. But the success of its agents depends on your judgement and your discretion."

There is a parental guidance alongside the professional concern, and try as he might, Ben can't fault his words.

"Culper has become a valuable asset in part due to what you've kept from him. It gives me no pleasure to suggest this, but there may come a time when your courier will also be best kept in the dark." Sackett waits for Ben to meet his gaze. "It would behoove you to prepare for such an eventuality."

\---

_Thunk._

Caleb knocks the wood off the stump and stacks another piece of birch, letting it wobble to a standstill. He raises the axe, and splits it in one drive.

_Thunk._

The next log in place, he's about to pull down when Ben calls his name.

"Caleb!"

_Ker-thunk._

Caleb eyes the lopsided log and kicks it to the ground.

"What?"

Caleb swinging an axe inspires a wider berth in most circumstances, and now, cheeks ruddy and his breath a plume in front of him, Ben gets the impression some additional distance might be called for.

"Thought you might want to see where we secured the goods you returned with," he says, half-turning his face away. Caleb's wood-chopping is no more refined than his flint striking. "We need to retrieve enough for Shepherd's delivery tonight."

Caleb stacks another log. "You haven't buried them, have you? Ground's frozen by now."

"No," Ben says, puzzled. "Daniels found a shack."

**_Thunk._ **

Ben watches Caleb struggle to lever the axe out of the stump as the two halves topple neatly to the ground. It wrenches free and Caleb surveys the scattered half logs with disinterest. There's a neat pile at the side of the barn, the bottom layer greying with age. Neither of them make a move to gather the kindling.

Caleb sniffs, wedging the axe back into the stump. His arm sweep is a pantomime.

"After you, Major."

\---

The workers' hut is an afterthought, constructed and abandoned at the edge of this field, a half hour's walk west of the encampment. If there were farmers here, they've long since gone. Loyalists, probably, hounded out of the area by the threat of the Continental Army roosting nearby.

Potts and Daniels had done well, finding an undisturbed place to secure Caleb's goods. Inside the shack, Caleb recognizes the bundles and chests immediately.

"Thought they'd be long gone," he breathes, falling to his knees to inspect them.

"I'd not be so careless," Ben chides, closing the door against the chill. It has little effect, not when there are gaps inbetween the planking of the hut's walls large enough to admit a fist. Still, the contrast between the hut and the snowscape outside is stark, and Ben has to blink away purple afterimages.

It's not the only unpleasantness lingering in his head. Sackett's ploy had thoroughly ruffled him. The walk from the barn has helped turn distress to disdain, and Ben puts the earlier conversation to one side in favour of present affairs.

"Have you a thought as to what you'll put up for lottery first?"

Caleb brushes his hands over the barrels of rum and tobacco, then lifts a bag that clanks promisingly.

"Candles and grog is what we need. Packets of tobacco. Once there's enough of a crowd to make it worthwhile, I'll take anything that'll help with the rations. Like that flask of vinegar."

He sits back on his heels, thinking and speaking as one. "Too much too soon, they'll wonder where it's coming from. Best if they think it's the quartermaster's surplus. Last thing I need is to be making even more of a name for meself."

It makes sense.

"Would the finer items not be more of a draw?" Ben challenges, just to hear what the response will be.

"The cloth, maybe," Caleb reckons. "Though it'll be torn up for bandages or used for patching. The women could have use of that, though it seems uncharitable to make them play for it."

"Surprising to hear you say that."

Caleb turns his head. "Have you even seen the camps, Ben?"

"Of course I have," Ben says, taken aback. "I just meant—"

"Aye," Caleb says, and it stops them both short.

Ben opens his mouth to argue, something like _I know what it's like for them, I know they're starving, I'm the one writing their widows when no one else has time_. He wants to say _You don't get to be the only one suffering, Do you have any idea what it's like for me, It was just a bunch of money, Caleb._

He wants to say _We're all making sacrifices._

He says, "Is there enough here?"

"Few weeks' lot," Caleb nods. "If we keep it a steady trickle. Though if enough of them cotton on, they'll come looking for the stash."

"We'll have to move it, keep it in rotation."

"You'll find a place," Caleb says, a little tersely. "You found this one, after all."

There's nothing Ben wants to say to that.

He leaves Caleb to work in silence, going through the sacks and chests and filling a feed bag with goods. He's methodical in his own way, thorough but haphazard, and though Ben watches him flit from bag to bag, he's sure nothing has escaped him.

Finally, Caleb stands, surveys the shack without comment, and turns toward the door. Without thinking, Ben crosses and places a palm against the wood. Caleb looks at the arm blocking him.

"What's this?"

Ben doesn't know where the words come from.

"I know I haven't been... appreciative," he starts.

"That's alright," Caleb says, wary confusion writ clearly on his face. It'd be a funny old world if superiors went around appreciating their subordinates, after all.

"You've given up a considerable personal profit, I've no doubt, and it's been at my behest. And now you're handling another scheme, on camp among our own men. At my orders."

The formality of his tone is a little off-putting, and though Caleb, given enough time and perhaps a thesaurus, would have come to a similar conclusion, hearing it said out loud is awkward.

"Ain't a problem, Tallboy. 'Sides, never asked for anything."

He waits, and after no response, goes to move past him again.

"I haven't been," Ben says. "But... I want to be."

Caleb looks lost. "Be what?"

It's barely a murmur. "Appreciative."

There's no room for misinterpretation. Ben's cool blues are dark in the hut, and he can see his intentions reflected in Caleb's darkening ambers, widening to take in this proposition.

Their lives have always pitted them back to back, facing outward against the elements, the army, the world. Now, the pull of their focus toward each other is palpable. With Caleb's hat tilted up to salute him, and Ben's broad blue coat shielding them from obligations, the space between them hums and livens to their attentions, sparking with electricity.

He watches Caleb's lips move. "Sure about that?"

Was it always a possibility between them, what they're about to do? If he hadn't been impulsive before, would it have ever come to this another way? Is it an indulgence, a mistake? Is his judgement still fit?

Ben nods.

"Well, then," Caleb growls. The bag slips from his fingers and thuds to the floor. Without taking his eyes from Ben's, he peels back his coat and reaches down to his leathers.

Ben steps in and stills Caleb's hands. If he's going to do this, he wants to do it right. Memories of Caleb's ministrations have returned to him night after night, and he will not be outdone in this arena. At the core of it is a tantalizing curiousity. What would it take to bring a man like Caleb to the brink? The sailor turned soldier turned courier, the man who claims to have seen everything, whom nothing and no one can surprise or catch unawares.

Ben's mouth dries.

He rubs his hands together, warming them as their breath steams in the frosted air. He unbuttons the flap and slides his hands down amidst the coarse linens. It brings him closer, adjusting for the right angle, and Caleb seems caught up in the planes and curves of Ben's face in such close proximity. He hardly looks away when Ben grasps Caleb's tip, revelling in the warmth from his body. A small frown of concentration as he encircles it, catching the head in the crook of his thumb as he moves.

It doesn't take much before Caleb's hard, and he rests his head against the door, murmuring,

"That's good, Tallboy."

Spurred on by the encouragement, Ben brings his forehead to Caleb's, tucking his chin. For the span of a wild heartbeat, he considers kissing him, Caleb, who still stands, eyes half closed, looking for all like he is stretching out in a spot of sunlight for a nap.

 _He's so at ease,_ Ben marvels. The image comes unbidden of a slow morning, before roll call, two bodies sleeping alongside each other. He almost stops then and there just to taste it.

With a start, Ben turns his head away and redoubles his efforts below.

Caleb grips Ben's coat, but his face is far too untroubled for Ben's liking. He twists his wrist, plunges his hands deeper, but his efforts aren't bringing the reward he seeks.

"Stay closer to the tip," Caleb directs, and Ben feels his face flush. He's not new to this, leastways, not with himself. And Caleb hadn't needed any pointers when Ben had had his back to the wall. It flashes across his mind that the smuggler has had more practice, with others, with other men. You heard stories about sailors. You heard stories about soldiers, too.

"Tighter," Caleb says, and Ben withdraws his hands abruptly, slamming them against Caleb's chest.

Caleb snaps upright, heel striking the ground as he meets Ben's glare head on. Caleb's heartbeat is strong under his palm as Ben leans into each word:

"Don't move."

He tears at the knot in his neck cloth, roughly dragging it free. Before Caleb can inevitably disobey his orders, Ben drops to his knees. A sharp intake of breath is the only movement as he goes about freeing Caleb from his smallclothes and leathers.

"Ben," comes Caleb's strangled voice.

"What?"

He can't decipher Caleb's expression from this angle through the thicket of his beard. The tremble in Caleb's leg goes unnoticed as Caleb says, "Nothing," dismissing it with a shake of his head.

If he stops to think it through, he'll bail, and Benjamin Tallmadge is really, really tired of thinking. Ben takes Caleb's cock in his hands, and lets his lips rest against the tip. He nips at it, timidly, a pale echo of how it all began.

Then he slides him in, adjusting carefully to the size, and Caleb swears, something lengthy, letting his head hit the door.

"Hah—"

He's heard of this, whatever this is, as rumour exchanged between boys cloistered behind stacks of schoolbooks. He has heard near mythical accounts of the pleasure it gives to the receiver. In his wildest dreams, he would never have reckoned with the hunger it returns.

Ben slides Caleb in and out, sometimes shallow, sometimes deep, with little to no regard for Caleb's incoherent instructions. By the time words give way to grunts and moans, Ben is already lost in his own rising need. He can feel it mounting in his breeches, taut against the fabric, and he rocks forward on his knees for what little friction it provides.

Caleb in turn is flat against the wooden door, knees buckling, and really it's up to God and whoever built this shack whether either will be standing in the moments to come.

"Ah, fuck, that's—Hah—Ben, you—hah— _Ben—_ "

He knows before Caleb warns him, hears his hands scrabbling for purchase against the wall, then in Ben's hair.

"Ben, fuck—"

And he's calling out something that sounds like an apology and a blasphemy as his hips buck hard. The warmth shoots into his throat and Ben falls back shocked, sprawling and leaning over to spit onto the floor, over and over.

Caleb groans loudly, so loudly, with an abandon that inspires envy. He slides down the length of the door as his legs give out beneath him and lands on the freezing floor with another groan.

"Fuck, Tallmadge," and his chest is heaving, first with effort, then with a chuckle.

Ben gets his breath back, then crawls forward to slump beside him against the door. Neither looks at each other, coats, hair and shirts in disarray.

"You good?" Caleb asks at some point and Ben nods, dumbly, face flushed the colour of autumn apples.

"You?"

Caleb nods, chest rising and falling deeply. There's spittle in his beard and Ben stares at it and his reddened lips and wonders if he was biting down. Ben slides his hands over his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it. Caleb tucks himself back into his clothes.

"I'll spare you your dignity," Caleb says, suddenly, "and not ask where a preacher's son learned tricks of the kind only the saltiest dock wench'll oblige."

"I thought that was what sailors did."

At this Caleb really laughs, laughs so hard there are almost tears. Ben can't tell if he's being humiliated or if this is just weeks of tension spilling out between them but at some point he starts to join in, and neither can speak for a minute.

"I'll leave you that image of seamen," Caleb says, "if there's even the smallest chance of that happening again."

Ben leans his head back. His neck cloth is in a heap at his feet. His first attempt doesn't reach past his throat and he has to swallow before it's audible.

"Could be," he says, and though he tells himself not to look, his gaze flicks over to meet Caleb's in a level stare. "If you wanted."

A hush comes over his friend, and it shouldn't surprise him that his courier is capable of stillness. Ben is reminded that this is a man who spent years of his life watching waters, hunting for shadows, before being recruited by the army to do the same.

"Might be some people have something to say about that, Major."

Ben knows Caleb too well to not see that his mouth and his eyes are communicating very different things. But he needs to hear it from Ben, and might be Ben needs to say it.

"Doesn't matter. Since when do we do things their way?"

Caleb grins, a sight straight out of their boyhood.

"Not since I joined this war," he agrees.

"Not since we joined forces," Ben adds.

The high ebbs and recedes, and soon Caleb is casting about for his bag and dragging himself to his feet. He reaches down and Ben pulls himself upright.

"You look a right mess."

"You look the same," Ben shoots back, dragging strands of hair into order. Bit by bit, the Major returns, waistcoat neat and neck cloth secure. Caleb barely remembers to do up his leather slacks and slings the bag over his shoulder.

"Off to see Shepherd?" Ben asks, hand on the door handle.

"Aye. The rats need feeding." He looks at his friend. If Ben feels the weight of his epaulettes in this moment, he carries them remarkably well. "Off to see Washington?"

Ben remembers the decoded dead drop letter in his waist coat. It's just as well he's composed himself already.

"Yes. Important news."

Caleb gives a curt nod, and they ready themselves for the blinding snow beyond.

\---

In front of Washington's headquarters, Ben pauses, wiping his chin self-consciously. There's no need. He's reassembled every bit the Major he's expected to be in these rooms, back straight, every seam in place.

The other horses are lined up outside, and Ben recognizes most of them. It'll be a full room tonight, and he feels curiously at ease in the face of a long debriefing.

_As if I'll hear any of it._

A sense of caution returns. There's been little to celebrate in camp, and he'll need to speak around the taste of Caleb in his mouth and hear past the ringing of Caleb's moans in his ears if he's going to keep his composure.

Still, even passing a combative Bradford in the hallway outside the dining room doesn't unsettle him.

"Tallmadge."

"Colonel."

"Two more deserters, I hear," and the sneer on Bradford's face might be triumphant, in the right light. "If men keep leaving the army like this, I suppose there really will be enough to feed us all."

"A welcome relief," is all Ben says.

"Or perhaps we'll resort to cannibalism. A fine legacy for our commander, don't you think? Shall we start with your old regiment?"

"Ah, Colonel, there's no need for resentment," Ben smiles. "Even if none of us will have you, I'm sure there are swine that need feeding."

In the shocked silence that follows, Ben reaches for the door and misses the final, last-second glance that Bradford throws at the dirt-stained knees of Ben's breeches.

"Always knew you had a mouth on you, Tallmadge," he says, under his breath.

Ben holds open the door as they pass through, and it clicks shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incident Sackett describes about the 8th Connecticut Regiment almost blowing up their captain [actually happened](https://msamaryland400.wordpress.com/2015/08/06/our-officers-cared-but-little-if-anything-at-all-about-us/), albeit sometime after 1780. [Sgt. Joseph Plumb Martin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Plumb_Martin) wrote about it in his memoirs, one of the few accounts from the perspective of an enlisted man in the Continental Army.
> 
> The "Instructions for the Lieutenant" are taken verbatim from Baron von Steuben's [Blue Book](https://warroom.armywarcollege.edu/wp-content/uploads/Von-Steubens-Blue-Book.pdf), page 148, the military drill book he compiled and published for the Continental Army (see chapter 6).
> 
> A big shout-out to the people who championed me throughout the writing of this chapter, especially on Tumblr and on the Discord server. Special thanks go to [Lucyemers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers), [ASheepsLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASheepsLife/pseuds/ASheepsLife), and [CrepuscularPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrepuscularPetrichor/pseuds/CrepuscularPetrichor) for beta-ing and listening to me grumble. And a huge thank you and lots of chocolate to [forbiddenarchives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenarchives/pseuds/forbiddenarchives), for helping me so much with the smut, general life advice, lifting me out of writer's blues and for being an amazing friend. <3


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